


Easy, Sweetheart

by samzillastomps



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Baking, Boundaries, But not how you think, Confessions, Delayed Orgasm, Edging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fenris is worse about expressing them, Fenris wants to stand up for Hawke, Fever, Fever Dreams, Finger Sucking, Flirting, Fluff, Hawke doesn't really ask to be sheltered but damn if he doesn't like it sometimes, Hawke is bad at feeling his feelings, Hesitant confessions, I'll leave that out of this fic, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Masturbation, Orgasm Denial, Protective Fenris, Romantic Thoughts, Sickfic, a bit of self-doubt, a combo of slowburn and time-hops that hopefully make y'all happy, a fight, about relationships, also, and all the tension really, aveline and donnic are gonna be engaaaaged, bit of begrudging caretaking, but that's the implied continuation, compliments, cuz it does for me, doing his best to explore with a willing participant, feeding each other, fenris needs a minute ok?, fenris reads, for all the explicit goodies packed up in there, handjobs, hawke being an idiot, i guess a kind of voyeurism for a bit, i mean according to Isabela anyway, inexperienced fenris, it's not much, knowing that this all leads to their Act 2 lovemaking scene ends me, more hurt/comfort to follow, relationships among the companions, sarcastic hawke gets real, sarcastic hawke is hiding his true feelings, sick hawke, slight injury/comfort, some Anders arguments, some mild foodplay, sorry chapter added!, steamy romance novel excerpts ;), surprise surprise >.>, these two are fliiiirttyyyyyyyy, thoughts about confessing, very long last chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-18 17:18:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13686219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samzillastomps/pseuds/samzillastomps
Summary: Garrett Hawke never considered himself fragile, but in the wake of the Deep Roads expedition, he feels less than sure about so much. Did he make the right decisions? Does he show the people in his life how much they mean to him without reservation? Shouldn't such things come naturally?One would think that knowing yourself and knowing what you want would be the easiest thing in the world. But then one would be wrong. As he comes to grips with himself, his magic, and the politics surrounding those things, Hawke can't help but look to the one constant at his side. An elf who normally distrusts and dislikes mages.So what does he see in Hawke that Hawke can't see in himself?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **QUICK NOTE: This fic deals with my Hawke's struggles with the politics of magic, which is a touchy subject even in the fandom. I just wanted to say that there are no judgments made in any of my fics that I'm ride-or-die about! Don't feel bad, don't feel sad, and if you feel very strongly about this topic, I totally understand and it is okay!**

“How many potions do you intend to make?” Hawke asked, teasing the elf beside him with a push of his elbow. “That has to be the thirtieth sprig of elfroot you’ve collected in the past hour.”

“Thirty-fifth,” Merrill said dutifully. “This patch of land is practically overgrown with the stuff! How can I resist?”

She looked like she’d been close to being bowled over from Hawke’s playful push, crouched over on her tiptoes and fingers, trying to stretch herself across a puddle to grab at the little plant. Clutching it tightly, she righted herself and gave a happy sigh.

“It’s a useful little plant. You’ll be happy I grabbed it.”

“I always am,” Hawke replied, turning to see where his other friends had wandered off to.

They were at the base of a mountain by the coast, tracking a stray bunch of bandits out of Kirkwall proper who’d gotten a bit big for their britches, and the trail had gone cold. They'd decided to recoup, prepare supplies, and then try to search for the trail once they'd had a moment to rest. Hawke could hear Varric's rumble of a laugh beyond the treeline, most likely at the expense of Fenris and his 'brooding'. They didn't sound as if they had picked up any leads as to where the thieves they were tracking were headed, and Hawke could hear the shearing swish of a whetstone against a blade. With a sigh, he wondered vaguely why the thieves had wisened up at this point, and not back in Kirkwall.

The brigands on the run from Hawke and his party had started out as petty thieves. That wouldn't have been so bad; they fit in with the rest of Lowtown that way. But then they thought themselves to be a group worth their mettle. They’d set themselves up as a rival for the gangs in the city, even though they were few in numbers and far fewer in brains. They billed themselves as mercenaries for hire, but rarely followed through. They stole from one another as well as from higher ranked Coterie members.

In short, the thieves had gone past minor annoyance into dangerous territory. Hawke didn't want to have to diffuse a turf war between gangs of assassins... not that he didn't have to do that regardless. And so he'd taken up the charge of hunting down the little fish and teaching them about the way of the pond.

They’d gotten wind of hits put out against them, gotten wind of Hawke’s name being whispered around the dark corners, and they had fled the city from Lowtown to Darktown all the way to the base of Sundemount. Seemed as if they were headed to the coast, perhaps to jump ship completely. Varric was convinced they were harmless now that they weren’t scrapping with the Coterie, and when pressed he’d voiced his qualms over a tankard of ale.

Still, as a favor to Aveline (and a small matter of personal pride) Varric had decided to come along with Hawke to pursue and chat with the fleeing idiots. Maybe their misplaced energies could be used elsewhere. As he and the dwarf were leaving the city limits, Hawke had grabbed Fenris and Merrill and convinced them to come along for the trip.

Probably a mistake.

Fenris, at the best of times, was a private person. He had warmed up to Hawke over the years for whatever reason, allowing himself to share and allowing Hawke to learn. Possibly because Hawke had never pushed, and because he was a stringent believer in mages needing safe places to learn without risk to non-magic users. Perhaps since he'd grown up beside Carver and Bethany, Hawke had developed a strong sense of respect and distance for both his own and others' talents.

But even though Garrett himself was a mage, he couldn’t help but notice how Fenris relaxed around him. The elf tensed up around Anders or Merrill when they were in the vicinity. As if too much magic in one area set the lyrium in Fenris’ skin aflame, or perhaps it was the cavalier way that they both defended their liaisons with spirits that boiled his blood. Even now, the elf was avoiding Merrill rather purposefully while she and Hawke scoured the hills for leafy treasures. He'd grumbled something about 'playing nice', which Hawke figured must have been something Varric had asked him to do.

Which hadn’t been Hawke's intention in bringing Merrill with them. At all.

“See?” Merrill opened her pack to Hawke, who was staring wistfully out over the glen.

“See what, dear?” he replied, as one might to a younger sibling, or to a child who wasn't doing much of interest at the moment.

“Look here,” she laughed, and he obeyed, pulling his eyes from where he thought he’d seen Fenris last. When they had stopped to forage, Fenris had said something about sharpening his axe. Hawke regretted not making it an innuendo, he just hadn’t thought about it until Fenris was out of earshot.

“You haven’t been collecting only elfroot, I see,” Hawke said with a touch of admiration, taking out a bit of stinging nettle from her pack. “This little buddy will make an excellent poisonous lubricant for my blades. Good work.”

“Good work to you for knowing how to use that one! Do you recognize the rest of them?” Merrill asked.

“I have studied like you asked me. Only a little,” Hawke amended, seeing as her eyes lit up. “Not like I should’ve. I don’t know what that flower does, or what this particular dried vine is for.”

“The vine at the bottom?” Merrill furrowed her brow. “Hawke, that’s vine charcoal. You use it for writing.”

“Only teasing,” Hawke said with a smirk, one meant to cover that he had absolutely not been teasing. Merrill, luckily, was not one to call his bluffs or his idiocy. It was what he liked about her. She reminded him a bit of Bethany, in a way.

“Oh, right,” she said, breaking into a grin herself. “Then you know what the flower is, too?”

“Ah…”

“Hawke.”

“What?” he shrugged, helping her to her feet as she took the bloom from her bag. “I have a lady back in Lowtown who I pay to know these things for me, who mixes lovely potions up at the drop of a hat.”

“And if you need potions on the road?”

“I have this lovely lady right here,” he teased, nudging Merrill once more.

“Oh!" she tsk-ed. "Stop trying to make me blush!”

“Trying and succeeding,” Hawke wheedled.

“This,” Merrill extended the flower to him a touch too forcefully, almost crushing its petals against his chest, “is embrium. _Gaildahlas._ Repeat after me, _gaildahlas._ ”

“ _Gaildahlas_ ,” Hawke repeated, feeling a bit stupid as his mouth struggled to form the elven word as elegantly.

“Very useful when one has chest pain, or difficulty breathing at night. It helps soothe the lungs, smells nice, and it’s pretty. Here, you can take it. It won’t bite. It’s an orchid, after all.”

“Th-thank you.”

“I don’t need more than one of them, so you can keep that,” Merrill said, moving along the path to set her hand against a moss-covered tree.

Hawke glanced at himself, wondering how he would keep this thing without crushing it. After a moment of panicked consideration, he slipped the stem through the open buttonhole at the top of his blouse. He had foregone traditional robes in favor of simple leathers, worried about mobility in the woods. And now he had a pretty little orchid hanging about his neck because of it. It had been the one good decision he'd made this trip.

“What do you think?” he asked Merrill, gesturing to the flower at his collarbone.

She turned and clasped both hands together.

“Oh, aren’t you precious!”

“Well, thank you,” Hawke grinned. “I’m trying very, very hard as a mercenary to cultivate the image of ‘precious’.”

“And you are doing a fine job,” Merrill said, patting his forearm encouragingly. Hawke chuckled, feeling less silly the more he relaxed around the little elf. Merrill tilted her head, as if she'd just remembered something. “Actually, while I have you, can I ask a favor?”

“Name it. I owe you for the…” Merrill eyed him in skepticism as he paused, and Hawke burst into a grin. "Embrium, Merrill. I didn't forget.”

She smiled broadly, practically bouncing as she extended her pack his way.

“I was hoping to find some mushrooms, if you wouldn’t mind holding this bag for me while I find a large log-”

After about a half hour of lifting logs and rocks for Merrill to search underneath of, Hawke felt a twinge of bitter regret in his chest and a twinge of pulled muscle in his shoulder. Selfishly, by bringing Merrill out into the wild, he’d hoped she would be off doing this on her own. Perhaps with Varric off with her, to tell her stories.

That would have left Hawke with Fenris.

And Maker take him, Hawke was desperately trying to come up with excuses to get the elf alone. There was something going on between them, a secret fondness, that Hawke desperately wanted to explore and that Fenris gave him absolutely no opportunity to. Almost as if he sensed it too and wanted no part in unearthing it. For the moment, Hawke was content to let it lie, to take pleasure in flirting with the elf whenever the opportunity came about.

But this trip seemed destined to deny them even that opportunity.

“Are you still foraging, Daisy?” Varric asked, approaching the glen with Fenris in tow.

“At this point it seems a bit excessive,” the warrior mumbled, earning him a little nudge from the dwarf at his side.

“Finally! We have enough elfroot to overrun the viscount’s gardens,” Hawke said triumphantly, hoisting the bag aloft with both hands as if it were a trophy.

“Oh, I’d never want to do that,” Merrill insisted. “They’re so vast and beautiful as they are.”

Fenris pressed his lips together, either in disdain or so that he wouldn't let loose a scathing remark. Varric patted the warrior's elbow, like he approved.

“Because they aren't open to the public, Daisy,” Varric said. “But regardless. These’ll make for some great tonics, so it's good the harvest was so bountiful.”

“Mainly healing potions, but yes. Tonics are possible. Poisons are possible too, if you get the right balancing herbs.”

“Make sure you don’t mix up which goes where once they’re brewed,” Hawke teased.

Fenris grimaced, looking as if that were the very thing he worried about where Merrill was concerned. Instead of adding anything else, Hawke adjusted the bag on his shoulder. He was about to ask Fenris how his blade sharpening had gone, hoping to use his dirty joke on the elf, when he was beaten to the punch.

“Have you finally found your calling, Hawke?” Fenris asked.

“Wh-what?”

“You’ve got a necktie made from flower blossoms, and you’re holding a bag full of elfroot as if it were an infant. I assume you’ve decided to give up on magic and intend to live life as a gardener from now on.”

Hawke chuckled.

“Oh, this old thing? This is an orchid with healing properties." He lowered his voice, as if he were about to whisper secrets into Fenris' waiting ear. "The Dalish call it _gaildahlas_."

Fenris' eyes widened a bit, as if the information struck a particular chord within him. But then his expression shifted, his eyes flinted, and he gave Hawke a rather intimidating smirk.

"It's embrium, Hawke. And I change my mind... you're more suited to being a mad hermit than a gardener."

"You don’t think I’d be better suited for fashion design?” Hawke teased as he flitted his fingers dramatically over his embrium accessory.

"Mmm. For blind men," Fenris replied.

Hawke barked a laugh.

“Really, I was merely occupying my time while others were off having fun with whetstones and lubricant.”

“You sound envious.”

“Oh, I am,” Hawke murmured.

“Your staff has a blade at its base," Fenris gestured to the staff where it lay propped up against one of the logs Hawke had lifted to no avail. "You could have sharpened it yourself if you cared so much.”

“Ah,” Hawke grinned, grateful for the setup. “But I like to imagine you’re better at handling blades than I am." Fenris' eyes narrowed, but Hawke plowed on. "Tell you what, you handle all of the blades I can give you, and you give me a staff to polish. Sounds like a good deal, right?”

“You think so?” Fenris chuckled. “Your own staff seems to occupy you well enough.”

Behind them, Varric gave a sharp grunt, as if he'd laughed without meaning to. Hawke could hear Merrill whisper a question, one that Varric waved off with more snickering under his breath.

"Ask Isabela," Hawke heard Varric say as he walked off in search of the trail they'd lost.

“Easy, there, sweetheart,” Hawke said to Fenris, raising one eyebrow with what he hoped was an effective smoldering expression. “I am a man of dignity, who only polishes once, maybe twice a day at most. If you're very lucky, I'll show you sometime.”

He noted with a skip of his heartbeat that Fenris’ eyes crinkled with amusement when he shoved Hawke’s shoulder. Having shown playful disgust, Fenris looked off at the rest of the glen, feigning disinterest even as he refused to move further away from Hawke's side. Satisfied, Hawke hid the embrium flower in his pack out of sight, its honey-sweet scent lingering on his fingertips for the rest of the trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that "embrium" in Elvish is the equivalent of "sweetheart" in common? Hmm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of tense arguing ahead, be forewarned.

Hawke had always surrounded himself with good people. Even back in Lothering, his brother had lamented that Hawke was the popular one. It wasn't untrue, just maybe not the way Carver had meant it. Hawke was free with his touches, his laughter, and his teasing. He kept people around that could dish it back to him, that responded with innocent sweetness, that reprimanded him and made him better. In this way, he felt he was as a gem with many facets; polished from all sides. When he'd tried to point that out to Carver, that he would expand his circle of people if he would just branch out from the brutish upstarts he hung out with, then Carver too would be seen as 'popular'. Carver had shaken his head, told him it wasn't that easy.

In Kirkwall, it hadn't been easy, no. But over the years, Hawke was pleased with the small entourage of family he'd surrounded himself with. Even when he bared his skeptical teeth, Merrill was patient with him. When he teased too roughly, Aveline pulled him back with a motherly smile. When he got too serious, Isabela thwarted his brooding with a joke about genitalia. He was never uncertain that they cared for him, that they liked him in their own ways.

Well. For the most part, anyway.

The methods Fenris chose to show Hawke he liked him were… at times confusing. Not always, of course. Sometimes, Fenris was nice in a rather unassuming way. As if he wanted to show Hawke he liked him without backing them both into obligations, and Hawke could appreciate that. At the bar, when Hawke would go to have a drink with Isabela, Fenris often accompanied him to play cards with Varric and Aveline. After Hawke was ready to go home, he and Fenris would walk back to Hightown together in the quiet. When their fingers brushed, Fenris would not pull away. He spoke only when Hawke spoke to him first, but the fact that he spoke at all was something Hawke treasured.

But while those moments were invaluable to him, Hawke had a hard time discerning if this was merely a friendship in its first blooming moments, or something more. And the more confusing angle was that there was also a _ferocity_ to Fenris’ warmth, one so unexpected and raw that it tended to rub Hawke the wrong way at first. In the moment, it always seemed as if Fenris was angry with him, and only later would Hawke realize it was a strange, frustrated affection the warrior was showing him.

Once, for example, Hawke had taken a dagger to the back while they were out by the docks. Fenris had dropped everything else with a cry, even after Hawke dispatched the unfortunate soul with a blast of spiritual energy, and run over to Hawke’s side. When Hawke had sunk to the ground, the stinging pain in his back an indicator of poison, he’d had to ask Fenris to pull the dagger out. His hands had been too shaky to do it himself, and he’d needed to reach for an antidote in his front lapel.

"Is it deep?"

"No," Hawke had answered. "But it's poisoned. Take it out."

Fenris had not hesitated: with his forearm about Hawke’s collar, he’d pulled the little sliver of scalpel-sharp metal from his shoulder and immediately pressed hard on the wound to staunch the trickling blood flowing from it. It hadn’t caught bone, and he had the antidote for the toxin used on the blade. The wound smelled like cat piss, so it was most certainly deathroot extract. Drinking down the antidote, Hawke had thought he’d come away lucky. That is, until Fenris had caught him by the collar and pulled him to his feet.

“Stay behind me, I said,” the elf had growled. “Don’t jump in, I said.”

“I thought you-”

“I can’t protect you if you leap so far ahead of me into the fray!” Fenris had interrupted. “My reach only goes so far. You have to stay behind me until I can clear you a safe path, or you risk being taken down!”

“Stop yelling!”

“I’ve every right to yell,” Fenris had replied. “You obviously don’t listen when I speak in my normal tone.”

“Look, I get it! But you don’t like mages behind you, you said so yourself,” Hawke had insisted. Fenris had sneered, but Hawke had continued, jabbing an index finger into Fenris' chest. “You said that mages make you nervous anywhere you can’t see them!”

“You are not just a mage, Hawke. You're more than that and you know it," Fenris had snapped, swatting Hawke's hand from him. "So either stand behind me, or take me with you when you charge."

For a moment, Hawke had stood there, dumbfounded, pain from his wound flowing through his veins and bringing with it the slightest twinge of dizziness. A leftover side-effect from the toxin. It hadn't been enough to make him hallucinate fully, but it had been enough to loosen his tongue. He’d tilted his head and blurted something under his breath.

“You were scared for me.”

Immediately, Fenris had closed his mouth so quickly that his teeth had clicked together. Behind them, Isabela had glanced up from where she’d been checking the pockets of the bodies before them.

“If you two are done whingeing,” she’d sighed, “I’ve found a note that will lead us straight to where we want to go. Bit bloody, but eh. Better than fire-scorched this go around, thank you Hawke.”

Both Fenris and Hawke had played it off, and ignored the fact that Fenris had unknowingly revealed aloud.

Hawke was no mere mage to the elf any longer.

Fenris trusted him to protect and be protected.

From then on, Hawke dutifully put himself where Fenris could see, or called out to him when he had to jump into the heat of the battle. When ambushed, the ferocity came back in Fenris’ eyes. When Hawke put himself in any sort of danger that Fenris wasn't privy to, it earned him that same look. Hawke grew to like it, in a way. It was harshness, and Fenris never apologized for it or expanded upon it. Fenris would go back to being sweet in unassuming ways afterwards, and it was merely a brief thrill. Nothing more. They continued in that manner for a while, both of them comfortable in their distance.

That is, until one morning when they were on their way to the Wounded Coast.

The walk so far had been a tense one, Fenris withdrawing as he normally did when Hawke brought along a fellow mage. Anders had behaved himself, responding rather respectfully if not tacitly to Fenris’ disapproving remarks. But then when the subject of discussion turned to mage rights and political reform, no matter how Hawke tried to put down an argument one seemed destined to escalate.

Wasn't that just the way of things in this day and age?

Finally, when they stopped for a late breakfast, the distant sound of seagulls signaling they were closing in on the Coast, Hawke thought that their discussion was over. Unfortunately, Anders had sunk his teeth into more than just his sweetroll, and was intent on continuing the discussion even when it was clear he was the only one invested.

“I can’t do this right now, Anders, come on,” Hawke muttered, taking out a water skein he had surreptitiously cut with some sweet wine the night before. Bringing it along instead of his purified water had been a mistake, or perhaps a blessing, given the current circumstances. He contemplated taking a swig to make this journey more amenable, but his impending headache told him he’d regret it if he did.

“You’d think a fellow apostate would have more stake in an endeavor such as this,” Anders sighed.

“Ease up, Blondie,” Varric said quietly. “Now’s not a good time to start quoting your manifesto.”

“Right. Sorry. It’s never a good time to start a revolution, everyone always asks you to come back tomorrow,” Anders said sarcastically, but he did seem a bit settled at the remark.

He and Varric had an interesting friendship, one Hawke wasn’t sure he entirely understood. Varric could say similar things to what Hawke tried to vocalize, and Anders didn’t take the dwarf’s criticisms nearly as harshly. Hawke felt compelled to smooth things over with the healer. He respected a lot of what Anders did, and tried to help him as much as possible… but sometimes Hawke just had no idea what to say to him.

“Look, Anders,” Hawke said carefully. “I know it looks like I don’t care, but I _am_ trying here.”

“Trying to do what?” the other mage asked with narrowed eyes. “Trying to be something you’re not by denying the suffering of your brethren? By avoiding uncomfortable conversations where your friends try to hold you accountable for your actions?”

Hawke let out a low, exasperated sigh.

“Yes, in a way. You’ve got me. Happy? I’m a mage who’s supicious of other mages, and I’m an asshole, is that what you want to hear?”

“But… how can you say that?” Anders asked, his voice small. “How can you be suspicious of other mages when you yourself are one?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You and Varric are both using that as an excuse more and more often,” Anders said quietly. “We have a moment. Why don’t you explain yourself?”

Hawke shrugged, sighing once more, feeling trapped. If Anders wanted him to talk, he would talk, but he knew he would regret it. He pressed at both of his temples hard until the prickles of pain subsided from behind his eyes, and then decided to tell the truth.

“I grew up hiding my hands in my pockets up until my ninth birthday. That was when I learned how to control the frost that collected on my fingernails when I was pleased with something.”

There was a long pause, one where Hawke struggled to find the next thing to say. His throat felt tight, though whether from nostalgia or embarrassment he couldn't say.

“At what age did your magic manifest?” Fenris asked quietly. A mercy.

“Five years old.”

“Did your mother know?”

“Not at first. I told no-one. And I was not powerful enough to be found out for a while. I kept it strictly hidden,” Hawke said.

“Four years is a long time for a child to hide something like that.”

“Technically my mother found out after only a year, around when I turned six. She told us we would be getting our very own mabari puppies, and I was too excited. I frozen the surface of the entire dinner table. Smashed two good china plates by accident when they slipped right off the cherrywood.”

Varric gave a fond little chuckle, and Hawke could not resist a brief smile.

“After that, Mother helped me to be more careful. My father did, too, before he died,” Hawke said, then turned back to Anders. “I remember, not long after my ninth birthday, my sister accidentally burnt her ponytail straight off her head with an arc of flame large enough to melt one of those huge Chantry candles in an instant.”

“Andraste’s arse,” Varric muttered. “You’re joking.”

“No. We were lucky we were outside playing by the cornfields, so nothing caught except her hair. I was lucky she’d had her hand facing away from me and Carver, flipping her hair over her shoulder, when she shouted at me.”

Hawke took a moment and appraised the party. Varric looked resigned, as if he didn’t want to be having this talk, but wasn’t going to interrupt Hawke to stop it. Fenris had an expression of neutrality on, like he expected nothing less of children learning they housed powerful magic. Anders looked as if he wanted Hawke to get to the point. Hawke held up a hand, rolling a bit of frost about his knuckles as if to illustrate the story further. In actuality, it helped him remember. He looked back to Anders with as much honesty as he could muster.

“It took me six hours - _six hours_ \- to convince her that it was funny and not horrifying. Thing is, she immediately thought she needed to be punished. To go to jail. I told her that mages don’t go to jail, they go to the Circle.”

Anders looked as if he wanted to say something, but showed restraint and did not. Still, Hawke didn’t miss the way his eyes narrowed into sharp steel at the comparison.

“She wanted to go to the Templars, didn’t realize that I was a mage too, even when I showed her that I could do this. She’d never seen me use magic, so she thought she was the only one. I told her that no, she wasn’t the only one, and yes, she was going to be okay. It took everything in me to calm both her and Carver down. I had to hide how terrified I was.”

“Terrified? That you would lose her?” Anders asked.

“No,” Hawke shook his head, laughing grimly. “Terrified  _of_ her. Of how much more powerful her magic was than mine. Of how much I felt like the Templars were the better choice for her, for us both.”

Hawke stopped to clear his throat, grief rearing its prickled head once more.

“I wish you all could have met her. She was a wonderful person.”

“Well. She was a Hawke, after all,” Varric offered gently from where he was sitting.

Hawke smiled, grateful for the compliment, but then he felt compelled to continue before he started cracking too many jokes. He cleared his throat and picked up in his story.

“As we got older, I found I had a knack for the elements. Bethany was an amazing healer. I strove to protect her even more than I tried to protect myself, once I realized how full of goodness her magic was. Especially compared to mine. She channeled all of that energy that had lit the world into flame, and instead of destruction, she used it to help our cows give painless birth. She used it to take away the chills that plagued the neighbor’s children. She protected the hen house from foxes with wards of her own design, and she conjured up healing vapors from the air in our garden whenever Mother felt the least bit woozy. That her magic was more powerful changed nothing about her. The more I learned about the Circle, the more I knew she was unsuited for it.”

“Then why-”

“Listen. I am trying to tell you that I fully empathize with the plight of the mage, Anders. It’s not that I don’t… but...”

Hawke paused again, shaking his head, feeling too full and like this conversation was too much for the morning. But he couldn’t stop the words now that he had started.

“But I’ve seen how devastating my own hands can be. I’ve seen people crumble at the snap of my fingers over the years. I deliberately am trying to learn to be a healer as Bethany was, and to incapacitate rather than electrocute. So to answer your question... I say that I doubt myself with extreme fucking difficulty. But I doubt out of necessity. Because if I don’t remember that I am dangerous, it will only make me more so.”

Anders had been listening with a gaze of compassion until this last outburst, and his eyes seemed to glaze over with concern and hurt at Hawke’s tone.

“I don’t know how I feel about my own magic lately,” Hawke admitted, “let alone the magic I’ve seen used in the past few weeks.”

"Seeing the harsh ways mages are judged hurts me as well," Anders said, misconstruing the point, though probably not intentionally.

Still, Hawke looked up at the apostate over the fire, unable to contain his ire.

“It's not that. People look at us in fear, and at times I wonder if we shouldn’t be feared. Who’s to say I won’t resort to something horrible if pushed? There’s potential in us to do increasingly darker and darker things all while justifying their means, and I have to reconcile that with my-”

“Blood magic _is_ a last resort that many mages do not even consider, as you said yourself, unless pushed to the very brink,” Anders spat. “Is it not worth noting what pushes them to that point, rather than the mere devastation it causes? Does the buildup not interest you, merely the end result?”

“Blondie, c'mon-”

Varric’s attempt to gain the mages’ attention was overlooked, brushed past as the argument snowballed onwards.

“The fact that you even use that as an example smacks of Chantry rhetoric, and you know it.”

“I didn’t use it. You put the words in my mouth,” Hawke bit back. "If you want to practice throwing your voice, have Merrill lend you that puppet she found in the market square. Damn thing's creepy enough that spouting propaganda will only serve to improve it."

“Stop evading this with jests. You were thinking about it, even if you didn't say it.”

“Even if I was,” he replied, “that doesn’t negate my point! I was saying that I’ve got a lot of reconciling to do, with how I view myself and how I view mages in general. I need to look at myself and wonder about how I know I won’t resort to blood magic to further my causes. Or to willing spiritual possession,” he said with sharpness that was not lost on Anders.

“You bring up Justice so often and with so much vitriol, it’s a wonder you still allow me to travel with you at all.”

"Indeed," Fenris said, his only contribution so far and an unhelpful one at that.

Hawke shook his head.

“Why are you so offended by my bringing up Justice? You own it when it suits you and act like you hate it when it doesn’t!”

“One, because you seem to still not understand the entire reason I allowed Justice to share my body in the first place. And two, because you seem to deny what you are in lieu of using it to free others, the exact opposite of what I’m trying to do.”

“Anders, you're trying to help people! I’m trying to help people! We're arguing while on the same side!”

“We are _not_ on the same side when your version of helping people is to send them to the blighted Circle!”

“If this is about Feynriel-”

“Not just Feynriel, but yes! Now that you mention it! Let’s talk about Feynriel. You knew that he could have been sent to the Dalish and you chose to send him instead to a prison!”

“It was what his mother asked for, Anders! I can’t go against a mother’s wishes for her son.”

“Ignoring your hangups for one moment, consider that she was not a mage and she couldn’t know what was best for him, regardless of the fact that she was his mother.”

“ _Is_ his mother. Feynriel isn't dead."

"Not yet. Give it time, he'll be Tranquil thanks to Meredith soon enough," Anders muttered.

"No, let's not derail. By your logic, the logic that you can't decide for a group you're not a part of- I’m not a Dalish, so I couldn’t make that decision for them to take him in either.”

“You have Dalish friends who you could have consulted,” Anders spat. “You truly didn’t think they would be more welcoming of a half-blood in their elven community, than the Circle would be of a mage plagued by dreams in the Fade?”

“I thought the Circle would keep him safe! That’s what they’re there to do! Protect people!”

“Oh here we go, Hawke and his bravado rationalizing mistakes once again. That’s your modus operandi, to _protect_ , so you assume everyone else in positions of power feels the same. You wanted to keep the Starkhaven mages safe, send them to the Circle. You wanted to keep Feynriel safe, send him to the Circle. You wanted to keep your brother safe, but he wasn’t a mage, was he Hawke? Couldn’t very well send him to the Circle, so you did the next best thing and dragged him with you to the Deep Roads! And in doing so, guess what? You kept _none_ of them safe.”

“Anders,” Varric muttered once again, but the damage was done.

The low blow cut right where Anders had meant for it to, and Hawke felt the wind flee from his lungs. After such a deep slice, there was only unsettled quiet in its wake. Varric, who had tried to step in to de-escalate, let out a small, disappointed sigh. Fenris, who had been shifting his weight back by the treeline, said nothing. And Anders, who had been so enflamed mere heartbeats ago, now seemed to deflate.

It had only been about a month ago, when they had surfaced from the Deep Roads without Hawke’s younger brother, and it was still raw. For everyone.

Hawke owed the mage across from him so much that he couldn't even defend himself. Even as he knew the comment was undeserved, there was a large part of him that felt like he needed to take it regardless. Had Anders not been there with them in the Deep Roads, had he not sensed where Stroud was once Carver fell ill, Carver wouldn’t have had a chance. All because Hawke couldn’t stand not being able to protect his brother in the only way he knew how: by keeping Carver at his side.

Hawke could not argue any longer; he could only stare at the fire between them as Anders flicked a twig into its embers, making the flame crackle momentarily.

“If you truly wished for your brother’s safety,” Anders amended softly, “if you truly wished for anyone’s safety around you, you would let them decide their own fates without your hand forcing the blade. That was all I meant by it, Hawke.”

For a moment, Hawke felt regret and shame swirl within his chest, threatening to bring him to his knees. He was already sitting, so why did he feel so dizzy? So confident, normally so confident, a deep sense of vertigo washed over him and stripped that confidence completely bare, exposing Hawke’s innards to the cold air. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging low, the log beneath him creaking gently as he shifted his weight.

Anders was right. And Carver was gone.

Hawke felt a hand at his shoulder, and he glanced up in numb surprise.

“That was uncalled for, mage,” Fenris said, standing at Hawke’s side and facing down Anders across the fire. “Saying things you cannot take back is what children do when forced to bed down for the night, not what grown men say in order to rally for their causes.”

“I-”

“Hawke has helped you when the rest of us disapproved of his actions. Of _your_ actions. But no matter how we felt, not once did we deliberately try to hurt him as you just did.”

Anders would not look at Hawke, and Hawke could do nothing but sit and stare back down at the dwindling embers of the fire. The mention of Carver seemed to have rocked everyone in the party, perhaps because Hawke had rarely ventured out without him at his side until that fateful day he had returned to Kirkwall without him. It had been a running joke, one Carver had seemed to lament. Anytime he’d left Hawke’s side for more than a day, it was a chorus of, _Do you have your brother with you? Where’s Junior? Carver’s missing, better go back for him!_

He had been caught in Hawke's shadow for years. And now, for all any of them knew, there was a chance he wasn’t even alive to be that. The thought brought pinpricks of tears to Hawke’s eyes, ones he refused to let fall. He didn’t want to show how badly it hurt, but if he said anything to defend himself, he would lose control of his emotions. For now, all he could do was stare at a log in the fire, gently willing it to fall to its side.

Anders, at least, seemed to feel guilty for what he had said. As if his anger had gotten the better of him, subsided, and now shame was streaking through him.

“I merely stated fact. But I can see now that it wasn’t the time,” he said quietly, but it sounded as if he were on the brink of apologizing. Before anyone could step in to smooth the situation over, Fenris lowered his voice and shot another caustic remark across the flames.

“Your ‘facts’ contradict one another. You claim that Hawke made decisions for the people you listed, but he deliberately did not. He supported those who he felt knew better how to help rather than deciding based on his own inclinations as a mage. He went against his own nature and his own wishes to do what you could not. His sense of justice surpasses yours without necessitating becoming an abomination.”

“You speak of things you do not understand, elf! Watch your tongue or one of these days you'll find yourself without it.”

“Is that why you dislike him? Because he did not need to invite a demon into himself to help others?”

Anders stayed silent, seething, regarding Fenris with a quiet hatred.

“Your blind faith to your cause is only a reaffirmation of his right to doubt your power as mages,” Fenris said with finality. “But again, is that not something you hate in others? The attitude that justifies hurting a few people, because it is worth the protection of several hundred in the long run?”

Fenris paused, allowing Anders to fill in the gaps himself, and then grunted.

“As I thought. And you wonder why Hawke questions himself? It is because he keeps company with the likes of you.”

Anders flinched, visibly too hurt or perhaps too ashamed to speak, and then stalked off into the forest behind them. He did not take his staff, nor his provisions, so he was likely to be back. But nobody chased after him, either because they respected his boundaries or did not care to follow. For a long while, the three men left behind sat in contemplative silence. Not once did Fenris move his fingers from where they lay against Hawke’s shoulderblade. He seemed content to stand there for as long as Hawke wished it.

Varric, however, was not.

“Well, Broody,” the dwarf said as he stood up with a sigh, moving over to where Anders had left an uneaten piece of sweetroll on the crate he’d been seated upon. “Now we know you don’t have to be touching someone to tear out their hearts.”

“I did not say anything that did not need to be said,” Fenris replied coldly.

“I know,” Varric replied. He picked up the sweetroll and shook his head at the elf. “But did you have to say so much of it at once?”

“He brought up Carver!”

“Yes, and that was a fucked up thing to do. I’m not saying it wasn’t. But you gotta admit, you went off there.”

“It was no different than any other argument we’ve had.”

“It was, and you know it,” Varric said firmly.

“Am I not allowed to feel strongly about something? Is Anders the only one who is allowed to voice things he is passionate about? Maker, you’re acting as if I killed his dog.”

"No," Varric replied. "I'm acting like you were both out of line."

Fenris took a breath, quieting at the thought. After a moment, he said softly, “I apologize. I merely do not see the usefulness in blaming Hawke for something that befell his brother so recently.”

“I know it's useless, and Anders knows it too. But we scratch at each other because we can. Sometimes because we’re all we’ve got.”

Fenris did not argue, and Varric continued as he waved the sweetroll crust at the two men before him.

“Anders could’ve blamed me for Carver’s fate- and to be honest, he probably should’ve. But he didn’t. Because he doesn’t mean it, Hawke. He knew you’d let him stab at you, and I think part of him knew you wouldn’t hit back.”

“He takes advantage of your kindness too often,” Fenris muttered down to Hawke, a phrase a bit too loud to be meant for his ears alone. Hawke could feel Fenris’ fingers clench over his shoulder. Woodenly, Hawke moved up to place his palm over the elf’s hand as a thank you.

Varric gave a sigh.

“Regardless. I want the record to show that we did the best we could with a fucked up situation. _You_ did the best you could, Hawke. For Carver. For all of them. Don’t you ever doubt that… because I sure as hell don’t.”

Hawke could only nod.

“I’m… going to see if Blondie’s alright,” Varric said softly. “I don’t expect we’ll be back for a bit. Give everyone time to cool off in their separate corners.”

“Thanks, Varric,” Hawke said quietly, and with a wave over his shoulder the dwarf was off, chewing a mouthful of sweetroll in lieu of saying goodbye.

There was a tentative silence that hung over the camp as Varric’s footsteps faded. Slowly, the rest of the world bled back into their space; the sound of birds overheard, the quiet crackling of the low flames, the breeze rustling branches at their backs, animals traipsing through the thicket beyond them and disturbing the leaves and pine needles underfoot.

Fenris did not move away from Hawke’s side. Instead, he sat down on the log they had pulled over to the fire not even an hour earlier. He rested his elbows on his knees, copying Hawke’s posture, and waited.

“Did my decision doom Carver?” Hawke asked carefully. He turned to Fenris, knowing the elf would not lie.

“I can't say."

"What _can_ you say?" Hawke asked, his tone low and unassuming. Fenris gave a heavy sigh.

"In my opinion, your decision did no more than Varric’s decision to trust his brother did. You both had family on the forefront of your minds.”

“But if I hadn’t brought him, he wouldn’t have had to suffer.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris replied. He was looking into the fire, not avoiding Hawke’s gaze but rather contemplating something else. After a moment, he added, “Carver wanted to accompany you, Hawke. Had you left him behind, there is no guarantee that he would have been safe without you in Kirkwall. He was a bit of a brat, and he tended to get himself into trouble when you weren’t there to reprimand him.”

“So what you’re saying is, there was no right decision?”

“Sometimes that is the way of things,” Fenris answered. “We cannot know the pain of another path, another life we did not choose to live."

"It still hurts."

"Hmm. Do you question the fact that Bethany did not survive the attack on Lothering, while you did?”

“I… used to," Hawke stammered, surprised at the question.

“Did it help you to feel less guilty?”

“No.”

“Did it inspire you to live more fully?”

“Y-yes.” Hawke sighed. “It took a long time, though.”

“Then take your time with this grief as well. Carver may yet live through this. You are blaming yourself for something that is out of your control.”

“Right.”

Hawke stared off, listless, until Fenris spoke once more.

“You have made many difficult choices during your stay in Kirkwall. You must find a way to live with those choices, or they will consume you.”

“Are you speaking from experience, Fenris?” Hawke asked, turning to the elf with misty eyes. “The things that keep you awake at night, that you regret… how do you not let them consume you?”

Fenris’ brow furrowed, but he did not break his gaze from Hawke’s.

“Who says I haven’t?”

“You’re still here.”

“I am.” He nodded, as if he liked how that sounded. “But I have yet to find my peace. Or my vengeance."

"You're still looking?"

"I am not hiding, which is something I suppose," Fenris said softly. "Until I am given the opportunity, I have to take your advice. Try to build a semblance of a life. Stay out of Aveline's hair if possible.” He regarded Hawke with a softer eye, now, as if realizing something. “Being by your side has given me such things to think about. I don't know that I ever thanked you for that,” he finished quietly.

"It's been a while since our last heart to heart chat, hasn't it?" Hawke evaded, trying not to show the elf how touched he was by such a remark.

"We should remedy that upon our return to Kirkwall," Fenris said.

Hawke blinked up at the sky peeking through the wooded canopy, blinked long and slow until the tears unshed were hidden back behind his smile. With a sniffle, he turned back to Fenris with a grin.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Hawke joked. “I can only handle so much of your affection at once, or I’ll go mad. Quick! Say something cruel, balance it out for me.”

Fenris smiled at him, as if the thought greatly amused him.

“No.”

“Ah, the cruelest denial of them all,” Hawke teased weakly, his heart pounding too hard in his chest at the expression on Fenris’ face. “The denial of cruelty.”

“I quite enjoy how freely you show your affection,” Fenris said quietly. “I would not stifle that.”

“Oh.”

“I thought I might even try my hand at it while we have the opportunity.” The elf paused, glancing away, and then turned back to Hawke with a mask of calm laid across his features. “If you don’t mind, that is?”

Hawke shook his head, part of his mind wracking itself for a way to joke out of the situation. There was none that he could see, none that wouldn’t leave Fenris feeling as if he’d exposed too much of himself to Hawke’s ridicule. But beyond his immediate instinct to ruin the moment with a joke, the majority of Hawke’s being was intent on seeing this through. He wanted to be cared for, especially by the man at his side. The rawness, the fire in Fenris' eyes, was still there, but it had been explained. There was a depth to him that Hawke had not seen before, and he felt their dynamic shift noticeably as he shuffled closer to him on the lichen-covered log.

When he leaned onto Fenris’ shoulder, the elf adjusted to accommodate his weight. As Hawke pressed heavily into him, Fenris wrapped his arm about Hawke’s shoulders and brought up his gloved hand to the back of Hawke’s head. Gently, ever so gently, Fenris dragged his metal claws back through Hawke’s hair, combing from his temple back behind his ears. He was never once rough enough to leave more than a slight tingling along the sensitive skin, not even when Hawke slipped his own arm about Fenris’ waist to hold him even tighter. It might have been his imagination, but when Hawke closed his eyes and allowed himself to accept the tenderness Fenris offered, he thought he felt the elf sigh shakily against Hawke's temple, his lips pressed to his part in a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Carver so much more than I thought I would. I knew he was an ass, but as the oldest sibling with a younger sister close to me in age, that feeling of not being able to assert yourself enough to step from the shadow resonates with me. I imagine Hawke losing Carver to the Wardens and living with that uncertainty would've just eaten at him.
> 
> Writing arguments is difficult, especially when I side with both at once. Argh. Hopefully it didn't stress y'all out too much. Anders is fanatical in some respects, sure, but he says a lot of things I also personally agree with. I dunno. I like the idea of Fenris debating whether or not to stand up for the man he has feelings for, tho. Gave me happy shivers.
> 
> I'm also a huge fan of Fenris supporting a mage Hawke in front of other people. Especially in front of other mages. Is that twisted of me? Kinda... ( /// u ///;; )


	3. Chapter 3

Tossing and turning, Hawke pulled his blankets higher up over his head with a low groan. His fever had mounted for the past day, progressing from a hot feeling just behind his eyes to fatigue that brought him to his knees, and finally to a deep chill that absolutely wrecked his entire body. He’d fought the cold for a few days, but the fever itself was always the hardest part whenever he succumbed to illness.

This wasn’t abnormal for him. He tended to catch colds rather easily back in Lothering, and had figured out that his mana reserves were never enough to allow himself to heal once a fever hit. Luckily for him growing up, Bethany had almost always been immune to every type of illness, allergy, or aversion he fell to. She used to make potent tinctures for his coughs, cool her palm with frost to rest against his forehead when he was feverish, and when he finally broke free of the overheating his body put him through, Hawke would sleep deeply and be fine.

Without another mage in the house since they’d been forced to Kirkwall, colds now laid Hawke out flat. Partially because they hit him suddenly and hard, but also because he tended to refuse potions out of sheer weakness. Or sheer stubbornness. When colds hit him in Kirkwall, he would still try to merely sleep them off, and he usually ended up prolonging his suffering by a few days. Something about his body chemistry utterly rejected any potions he tried to take during the worst of his illnesses, be it lyrium or elfroot or even simple regenerative herb tonics.

Not that his mother wasn’t trying to convince him to take some anyway. She’d been worried more so than usual this time around, and Hawke suspected it was because he was the only child left for her to fuss over. He allowed it, and appreciated it. It was kind of nice to be loved in such a protective way, even though he had to argue against her pressing a vial of liquefied embrium to his lips in the meantime.

His mother checked on him for the third time that day, tapping on the door to the master bedroom with her knuckles. He mumbled something from beneath the blankets, and he didn’t know if she’d heard him or not. His mother was going to come in either way, not like it mattered.

“How are you feeling, dear?”

“Nngghhh,” Hawke groaned, closing his eyes against the headache building up behind his eyes. He heard his mother move through his room, opening the curtains.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she said. “Let’s air out this room a bit. See if a fresh breeze doesn’t help any.”

“Won’t help. After I sleep, I’m gonna be fine,” Hawke muttered into his pillow, feeling anything but. His joints ached, his body curling in on itself like a dried out leaf. “Just need… ugh.”

“Sit up, love, and try to drink this.”

“No potions, Mother,” Hawke said for what felt like the tenth time. “They make it worse.”

It was true. When dealing with the common cold, potions tended to react in Hawke’s body with an almost offended harshness. As if being used for something so trivial was an affront to their medicinal properties. He usually ended up nauseous for hours as a best case scenario, and vomiting for hours as the worst. Weighing his options, Hawke always chose to remain feverish rather than sick to his stomach.

“I know, Garrett. I’ve brought you some broth.”

“Not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten in two days. Eat, please.”

He gave a low groan as he debated arguing with his mother. She wasn’t above yanking the covers off of him to get him to sit up, he knew that from experience. She also just wanted what was best for him. His lack of appetite had progressed far enough for him to feel physically weak from it, so she probably had a point. Hawke sat up, pulling the blankets about himself in a cocoon.

“Window’s open,” he grumbled.

“Fresh air will do you some good.”

“I’m cold.”

“Drinking hot broth will help that.”

Hawke smiled despite his pain. She always took his teasing in stride, this woman. She was here by his side when he was being an absolute baby, too. He leaned forward until his forehead was resting on her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Oh don’t thank me yet,” his mother said fondly, rubbing his shoulder lovingly over the blankets. “I’m about to have you drink this whole thing down.”

Hawke sat back onto the pillows, freeing his arms from his blanket layers to take the hot bowl of broth in shaky hands. His joints felt sluggish and swollen. His head was too heavy, his neck tired from having to hold it aloft. His eyes were heavy, even though he’d been asleep for what felt like forever.

Pressing the back of her hand to his forehead, his mother tutted.

“Still too hot. Your fever should’ve broken by now.”

“Mmm.”

“I should go get a healer.”

“I am a healer,” Hawke grumbled petulantly.

“Shush. You can’t even sit up straight, I doubt you can cast anything to help yourself.” His mother stood, moving to the other window further from his bed. She opened the curtains, letting the daylight stream in, and Hawke appreciated that she left the pane firmly latched. His body was beginning to tremble with chills from the one open by his bedside. “I’m going to get a healer, we’re getting you a potion.”

“I don’t-”

“Shush,” his mother said again, firmer this time. “You’re beginning to worry me.”

As she left the room, she cleared her throat.

“Besides, dear,” she added, her voice decidedly sprightly. “I won’t be leaving you alone. You’ve got a visitor.”

“No.”

“The elf came-”

“Tell Merrill that it’s contagious,” Hawke groaned, sipping at the broth gingerly. It felt good, the slow burn deep into his chest. His internal organs felt as if they couldn’t get warm enough, and this helped. “Super contagious and it makes your belly-”

“No, it's not Merrill,” his mother interrupted. “The other one.”

Hawke inhaled, choking on the broth. He started to cough, barely setting down the bowl on the bedside table before his ribs clenched and his lungs felt like they were being ripped from him. He barely registered that his mother had said something about fetching him, barely registered that he was alone once again. Hawke fell back onto the pillows, one arm crossed over where his ribs felt bruised from his coughing, one arm held over his eyes to block out the rays of much-needed sunshine. His energy was sapped from the coughing fit, and he merely needed a bit of a rest.

He didn’t know how long it was until he heard a distinct throat clear by his bedside. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but Hawke could have sworn he’d dozed.

“Mmm?”

Before he could open his eyes, as soon as Hawke moved his arm from his face, he felt a cool hand pressed to his forehead. He whimpered, vaguely remembering the feeling of Bethany’s frosted fingertips soothing circles into his temples. It hurt, remembering. It hurt worse realizing it wasn't Bethany who comforted him now.

“You’re burning up,” Fenris murmured, bringing Hawke back to reality right as tears began to form behind his eyes. Fenris pulled his hand away, brushing back Hawke's hair from his forehead as he did so.

Hawke nodded, feeling pathetic. Feeling alone.

He heard the scrape of a chair being pulled closer, and then felt a cool compress being laid across his brow. The smell of peppermint surrounded him, a soft veil of crispness that sent a thrumming shiver through his body. He sighed, automatically drawing a lungful of the soothing fragrance. The relief was palpable and immediate, even as he trembled and shifted further beneath his layers of blankets.

“F-Fenris.”

“Be still now,” the elf hushed. “There’s no need to speak. Just relax.”

“Peppermint oil?”

“Only a touch. It will help to break your fever. Hopefully.”

Hawke still didn’t open his eyes, but he heard a squelch and then the distinct pitter-patter of droplets falling into a ceramic basin filled with water. Fenris continued.

“I need you to relax,” he said softly. “This won’t feel good at first, but it will help.”

Hawke had never heard Fenris’ voice like this. It was still dark, still rough, but it sounded as if Fenris was attempting to soften himself. To comfort. He sounded passive and calm instead of caustic and aloof. His tone was what persuaded Hawke to relax back against the pillows as Fenris pulled his blankets low about his waist, more so than the promise of relief. He heard another promise in Fenris’ words: the promise of patience and time.

When cool fingers began to undo the leather laces tied up to his throat, Hawke bit back a moan. He tensed his body, willing it not to shudder, willing himself not to whine. Knuckles brushed across his Adam’s apple, down the dip of his throat, across the slope of his collarbones as Fenris pulled his shirt collar free from his skin. The balmy spring air from outside smelled like gardens and honey, and Hawke forced himself to take in a deep breath of it. He forced himself to try to relax, even as he felt a flush creep up his neck.

“Your skin is flushed down to your chest, Hawke. How long have you had this fever?”

It had nothing to do with his fever.

For weeks now, ever since they’d heard word from Carver that he had survived the Joining, Hawke’s head had been in a positive space. He’d had the energy to help his mother more, to move them completely into Hightown, to redecorate the place and make sure that Bodahn and Sandal had everything they needed to be happy. He’d been to the tavern with Isabela too many nights to count, had figured out one of Varric’s many tells during Diamondback, and had even had time to volunteer at the alienage with Merrill. Spring had brought him many things, many hopeful, wonderful things… but more than any of them, it had brought on a deep and restless crush. Hawke’s budding affection for Fenris went beyond the friendship they shared, and lately he’d had the headspace to bask in its newness.

At night, Hawke’s heart would thump out a fast and steady rhythm of longing, knowing that he was so close now that he lived in Hightown. They were practically neighbors. He could just walk over in the middle of the night, if he wanted. Sometimes he did just that, even though the occasions were few and far between. He’d make up an excuse about insomnia, ask Fenris to take a walk with him, and usually offer up tea that he would heat with the palms of his cupped hands for them both.

Fenris would always come, even on the rare nights when Hawke’s visit woke him up. He would walk with Hawke to a garden in the square, and when they sat together looking up at the moon, Hawke would imagine what it would be like to be kissed by him. When he was back in his own mansion, the house quiet with everyone else asleep, Hawke would bring a pillow close to his chest and hold it tight and imagine what it might be like to fall asleep with someone else for a change.

On most nights, his imagination would wander past sleeping. Past kissing. Hawke would imagine undoing Fenris with his words, then with his hands, pulling layer after layer from the elf until they were both bare-skinned and tangled together in an unending embrace.

Now, Fenris was actually here, untying his shirt, exposing his chest to the breeze, fulfilling a fantasy of Hawke’s that he had only found in the dark of night. And he was in too much pain, was too weak, to reach up and drag Fenris to his chest. Hawke could have cried at the thought, and part of his fever-addled brain wanted to more than anything.

So close, yet so far. Wasn’t that how he’d felt since moving to Hightown?

The diligent way Fenris undressed him, pulling apart his collar just enough to expose a v of downy-soft curls trailing across his chest and leading down his sternum, was enough to fan the flames already alight within Hawke’s core. He knew he was breathing quickly, but couldn’t help himself.

He arched into Fenris’ touch when the elf’s knuckles dragged across the swell of his chest and then back up to his neck. The back of his hand trailed along Hawke’s cheek, checking his temperature, or perhaps reassuring him for what was to come. Whatever it was. Fenris’ palm pressed to the center of Hawke’s chest and gave him a slight push, and Hawke realized he had been arching up from the mattress ever so slightly. He’d been straining to be touched more, even though the chill of Fenris’ fingers sent pain coursing through his limbs. He sighed hard and settled back into the pillows.

“Are you ready?” Fenris asked, voice husky.

“Maker, yes,” Hawke whispered, delirious with want, wracked with chills so strong that his jaw remained clenched and taut.

The cold of a moist sponge against his throat was enough to elicit a long, low moan of pain from deep within Hawke’s chest. He tried to flinch away, but hadn’t the strength. Fenris’ palm against his chest held him in place as he dabbed the cool sponge along Hawke’s overheated body.

“Your mother explained to me that you do not take potions when you fall ill.”

“M-make me sick,” Hawke moaned, and he brought one feeble hand up to grab at Fenris’ wrist where it held him down. Fenris seemed to gentle at the touch, drawing the sponge less quickly over Hawke’s chest.

“You’re already sick.”

“Nnngghhh…”

“Your stubbornness is irrelevant. I made a deal with your mother,” Fenris said, moving the sponge back to the basin on the bedside table. He dipped it in cold water, then squeezed the excess out. Hawke watched with bleary eyes as Fenris’ bare forearms flexed with the little exertion, his lyrium tattoos pale white against his brown skin.

His bare skin.

Hawke blinked hard as Fenris continued speaking, uncertain if he was dreaming or not.

“I told her that she could go and fetch a healer, but to give me a few hours with you.”

“So you could torture me?” Hawke mumbled, not really having meant to say it out loud. Fenris chuckled, though, taking no offense.

“No. To see if I couldn’t help break your fever first.”

“You’re…” Hawke swallowed hard, his tongue feeling too dry for his mouth to form words. “You’re not wearing your armor.”

“The only thing I intend to fight this afternoon,” Fenris replied as he placed the sponge back on Hawke’s clavicle and dabbed downward, “is the urge to forcefeed you a potion when your mother returns.”

“Why n-not forcefeed me, if you feel so st-strongly about it?” Hawke bit out past a particularly brutal shiver that tensed his entire core.

“I don’t like the idea of making you do something that you don’t want to do,” Fenris muttered. He paused, the sponge held midair over the center of Hawke’s chest. “Even if it _would_ help you recover quickly.”

“I don’t like puking my guts up just to break a fever,:” Hawke mumbled. Then awkwardly, as the thought occurred to him that Fenris meant well, he conceded, “But... if you ask me to, I will, you know.”

The hand Fenris was using to hold him down twitched, and automatically Hawke slid his own fingers up the bare forearm he’d never seen before. As if Fenris’ movement had been a permission. As if he wanted to be touching Hawke more as well and was holding back too.

“Did you eat anything today?” Fenris asked, his voice a bit too gruff.

“Broth,” Hawke answered, slipping his fingers along the groove of the inside of Fenris’ elbow, just below where Fenris had rolled up the sleeve of his charcoal-colored tunic. The skin there must have been sensitive, because Fenris pulled away. He caught Hawke’s hand in his own, then pushed it back so that Hawke’s hand was over his head. Hawke realized with difficulty that Fenris was out of his chair, leaning over him as he took a knee on the bed at his side.

“Good. Because that is the only thing I’ll ask that you drink today.”

When Fenris touched the cold sponge just beneath Hawke’s jaw, Hawke let out a low groan through clenched teeth.

“I know,” Fenris murmured, and for a moment Hawke couldn’t tell if he was being facetious about Hawke’s pain tolerance, or if he truly didn’t want to be causing Hawke discomfort in the moment.

They continued in this manner for what felt like hours, Hawke’s fever building to the point where he could not stay awake any longer. It had never been this bad before, and for a split second Hawke wondered if he hadn’t contracted something rare and horrendous from something he’d eaten by the docks. That was his last conscious, tangible thought before he began to slip in and out of consciousness.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of sensations rather than concrete memories. The smell of peppermint. The feeling of a calloused palm resting heavily on his forehead. More blankets being piled tight about his body. The ache in his joints, pointed and sharp and unrelenting. A glass being held to his lips as cool water slid painfully down his throat. A deep voice saying something soft, something too kind, something he didn’t deserve to hear.

 _Easy, sweetheart,_ it whispered.

At one point, Hawke recalled saying nonsense aloud. He couldn’t recall what it was, or who he said it to, but he remembered thinking _that doesn’t make a lick of sense_ before darkness took him back under. Restless sleep found him, tangled with him as two feral dogs wrestled in the street for dominance, and Hawke found himself at a loss to fight back. He fell into unwilling slumber, unable to keep his eyes open.

When he dreamed, he dreamed of Bethany and Carver. Young, so young, with Bethany’s hair a jagged short bob about her shoulders. It was evidence of their mother’s efforts to maintain what her daughter had accidentally done to herself with her magic. Carver’s face, the way he used to look up to his big brother with wide-eyed awe and affection. He’d looked so much like Bethany when they were little, but as he grew up, he kept little of her softness.

Hawke’s dreams took darker turns after that, visions of memories that haunted him still. The way Bethany had fallen limp to the ground, her eyes still open even as her back bent the wrong way from where the ogre threw her. The way Carver had clung to him as the Wardens guided him away, his voice saying goodbye but his eyes asking Hawke to follow as he always did.

Hawke dreamed that he wept for them in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to in real life. He dreamed that he was kneeling in his bedroom, facing the fireplace, burning old clothes from Lothering and crying as each article turned to ash. And then that too faded like smoke into the ether of his fever’s last gasps.

Hawke woke up when the sun was no longer shining. Twilight had fallen, casting dark shadows throughout his room as the final rays of the sun bled orange and red into the indigo approach of night. He awoke slowly and weakly, as if his body still hadn't decided that waking up was the best course of action anyway.

Hawke didn’t want to move at first. He thought about sleeping through the night, because it would most likely do him some good to just rest. He felt weak, but no longer cold, which was a good sign. In fact, he was a bit too warm. His body yearned for the open window, the spring breeze and briskness that came with dusk, and he knew before even moving that his fever had finally broken. When he tried to sit up, however, he heard a stirring at his side.

Laying on top of the blankets, an arm draped over Hawke’s waist and a leg thrown casually over Hawke’s ankles, was Fenris. At first, Hawke glanced about, checking all corners of the room and even the ceiling for some hint that he was still dreaming. But then Fenris shifted, an instinctive movement, and drew himself tighter to Hawke’s side. His breathing was deep and even, and Hawke settled back carefully against the pillows so as not to disturb him.

Sleeping as he was, Fenris’ face was even more beautiful than Hawke imagined it would be. There was no trace of a scowl, no skeptical eyebrow raise, no cautious smirk. He was curled up against Hawke's length, their height difference apparent as Fenris tried to cradle Hawke to his chest. The elf hadn't disturbed any of the pillows, was on top of all of the blankets, maybe ot of politeness. It was an absurd thought, one that would've made Hawke laugh had he not been in this precarious position. Fenris was completely relaxed, and Hawke knew he would rather starve laying there than disturb him.

His stomach, however, made no such bargain. It growled loud enough to startle Hawke himself, and from where Fenris was pressed to Hawke’s side it seemed to have been the right volume to rouse him from his nap. Fenris inhaled deeply, shifting slowly as he stretched his arm out further over Hawke's stomach. His hand clenched into an easy fist as he finished his stretch and then relaxed back down over Hawke's middle.

“Hey,” Hawke said quietly, watching and hoping Fenris wouldn’t move.

“Mmm,” the elf brought his hand from Hawke’s waist and groggily pushed his bangs back from his forehead as he heaved a long sigh. “What time is it?”

“Not sure.” Hawke glanced around. The room was growing darker still, no candles lit to give him any indication of time passing. “Night.”

“Good,” Fenris groaned as he sat up, scooting over the blankets so that he was pressed seated against the pillows by Hawke’s head. “I think you got a few good hours of rest, then.”

“Was I…” Hawke paused, blushing, then sat up as well, mirroring Fenris’ posture. “You…”

“I hope that I didn’t cross any boundaries,” Fenris said tersely, and when Hawke glanced over he noted with pleasure that the elf’s ears were dark pink. “You asked me to, but I do not think you remember giving me permission to… be here.”

“I remember Mother gave you permission. She let you in the mansion, right?”

“I meant in your bed, Hawke.”

“Oh.” It was Hawke’s turn to redden. “I don’t remember, no.” He turned to Fenris before he could move, however, and added quickly, “But you don’t need my permission.” The elf furrowed his brow, and Hawke scrambled to amend, “No, I just mean that you’re always welcome.”

“In your house?” Fenris asked, giving him a little smirk.

“That too,” Hawke replied, smiling despite feeling like a damn fool.

Fenris chuckled.

“So you do not remember asking me to... be here?”

"Did I say it with that much hesitance?" Hawke teased.

"No," Fenris sighed. "You were much more pathetic in the asking."

Hawke cleared his throat, a bit miffed at the phrasing.

“I don’t remember anything past the peppermint cloth.”

“You… said some things.”

“Oh Maker,” Hawke grunted. “What did I confess to? Cheating Donnic out of the last hand of Diamondback? Because if so, it's all a fever-lie and you shouldn't believe it for a second.”

He reached for a glass on the bedside table, the room darkening enough around them that when he turned back to Fenris, the elf’s eyes were alight with reflections.

“Would that it were that lighthearted,” Fenris said quietly.

“I…” Hawke paused, the glass of water halfway to his lips.

He blanched, fear streaking through him. Had he confessed to wanting Fenris to be more than his friend? Had he asked for more while he was feverish? Had he made his friend uncomfortable?

“Whatever I said, Fenris, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Fenris replied, waving off his words with a flick of his hand.

Hawke took a drink of water and tried to deliberately not think about how good Fenris looked with his sleeves rolled up like that. The dark charcoal blouse was, at first glance, close enough to his armor that it made sense Hawke hadn’t noticed it wasn’t. He swallowed, then glanced back at the elf's eyes in the dark.

“What did I say? If you don’t mind telling me?”

“You spoke of your childhood for a bit. Mostly nonsense. At one point, you said you’d sell five mabari to your sister for a longsword, and I have no idea what that means.”

Hawke barked a laugh.

“I don’t either.”

"As the day went on, you seemed increasingly distraught,” Fenris said carefully.

“Oh.”

Hawke brought a hand up to his face, and when he rubbed at the corner of his eye, he felt the telltale crystals of leftover salt. Well then.

“Did I cry?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell Varric.”

“I won’t tell Varric,” Fenris said with a derisive little snort. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Hawke reached out and rested his hand on Fenris' thigh for a moment, as if to say thank you. The elf seemed to bristle at the touch, but in the dark Hawke couldn't tell if it was from pleasure or pain. He drew his hand back to his own lap.

“Did I say anything else?”

“You asked me not to leave your side,” Fenris said calmly, but he brushed past it before Hawke could comment. “And then more nonsense about a boat in a bottle and some sort of spindleweed sails. Oh, and something that sounded like ‘I have no mana left to give you’ which would have been amusing had you not sounded so pitiful. Then you started to toss and turn, and you begged me to help you sleep."

"I said it like that? 'Fenris help me sleep'?" Hawke asked.

"Yes," Fenris answered, his voice tight, as if he didn't want to repeat it a second time. "So I thought it best that I lay with you. Keep you still and warm until your fever broke.”

“Andraste’s arse, why did you put up with all of this?” Hawke muttered, relaxing back into the pillows with one arm above his head. The other arm, the one Fenris was close to, barely brushed against the elf’s side as they both shifted next to one another.

“Because your mother came back with a potion, and you asked me seriously if I was going to make you drink it,” Fenris mumbled.

"I don't remember that."

"Your eyes were open, you seemed lucid, but… I couldn’t," Fenris said. His voice was low, as if he felt guilty for not doing it, or maybe guilty for having considered it. He turned back to Hawke in the dark. "I chose to put up with your antics instead.”

“Huh,” Hawke grinned, amused. “I guess I’m not the only stubborn one here, then?”

“No,” Fenris agreed, settling back against the pillows as well. “I suppose not.”

“So,” Hawke said quietly as he placed the water glass back on the table. “What will you do now?”

“I suppose I should let you rest,” Fenris said, and he shifted as if he were about to swing his legs over the other side of the bed. Before he could, Hawke touched a hand to his forearm, and Fenris froze.

“Actually,” Hawke said, licking his lower lip as he struggled to look composed. “I’m not tired.”

“No?”

Hawke’s stomach growled again, more insistently this time.

“No,” Hawke confirmed with a rueful laugh. “Would you care to accompany me to the kitchens for a midnight snack?”

“It’s not that late,” Fenris stated, glancing outside for a moment at the stars. “The sun’s barely set.”

“Okay, dinner then.” Hawke slid from the blankets with a wince, setting his feet flat on the cold floor with a grimace. He turned to the bed, holding out one hand. “How about it? Care to accompany a dashing young upstart to dinner, Fenris?”

“Half of your hair is sticking straight up,” the elf said disapassionately. "I don't know if dashing is the right word to describe you right now."

But he took Hawke’s hand in his own, and he allowed Hawke to pull him forward off of the bed to face him. Standing with his toes practically on top of Hawke’s, Fenris looked very much as if he wanted to run. He avoided Hawke’s gaze, perhaps out of courtesy for how disheveled Hawke was with his shirt still mostly unbuttoned, or perhaps out of disdain since it had been a few days since Hawke’s last bath. Either way, it was endearing and slightly embarrassing. Hawke did what he did best in those scenarios; he leaned into it, and owned it for what it was.

Wrapping his arms slowly about his shoulders, Hawke drew Fenris forward into a gentle embrace. He didn’t have enough energy to hug him with the normal amount of strength usually reserved for such activities, but Fenris didn’t seem to mind. As Hawke gave him a gentle squeeze, Fenris rested his cheek briefly against Hawke’s as if to reassure him. His hands, his bare forearms, pressed against Hawke’s back for the moment.

“Thank you,” Hawke murmured.

“Happy to help,” Fenris replied, sounding for once as if he were caught off guard. “Even if you were absolutely pitiful to behold, I enjoy being by your side.”

“It must have been very boring.”

“Worry kept me occupied,” Fenris admitted quietly.

Hawke’s arms tightened, and before he could stop himself, he turned and pressed a grateful kiss to Fenris’ temple. The elf gasped, a tiny noise that Hawke almost didn’t catch, and his fingers dug into Hawke’s back reflexively.

Then they were separating, clearing throats and pretending as if they weren’t flustered.

“Food, then?” Hawke asked, relacing the front of his shirt with shaky fingers.

“Right. Food.” Fenris shifted his weight from hip to hip, looking down at the floor. “Lead the way.”

They left the bedroom as it was for the moment, with two indents from their bodies still side by side on top of the blankets and beneath. The spring air moved through the room in their absence, cleansing and purging and promising a better day was just one more sleep away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hawke's mansion room is very dark and secluded, pretend with me that there are some large windows he just chooses not to open, like the ones on the second floor balcony, thank you <3 haha)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it warm in here, or is it just these two??

“What do you do to occupy your time, Elf?” Varric asked, shuffling the deck one last time. “Besides lose at Wicked Grace?”

“Hilarious,” Fenris sneered, tapping his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. “Need I remind you that luck is a fickle mistress?”

“Oh no, we’ve had our dalliances, Lady Luck and I,” Varric said. “I think I know her well enough not to expect much. Doesn’t detract at all from how much I’ve enjoyed sweeping the table with you tonight, though.”

“It can make up for all you lost to me last week,” Isabela said, grabbing her cup and moving towards the bar. “Come on, Kitten. I’ll show you how I can turn a shot of water into a shot of whiskey.”

“Ooh,” Merrill stood up from where she’d been watching the game and dutifully followed Isabela to the bar. “I’ve heard the fermentation process takes ages, though?”

“Merrill,” Isabela sighed, “it’s a bar trick, not a recipe.”

And with that the women were gone from earshot, hard to hear over the din of the crowded bar.

“About time for us to head out as well,” Hawke said, holding out his hand for Varric to shake.

“No rematch in the near future?”

“Not when you’re in the midst of this torrid Lady Luck affair, no.”

Varric gave a low, rumbling chuckle and sat back down to count out his sovereigns. Hawke gathered his meager winnings, only ten coppers, and pushed in his chair as Fenris stood to follow him.

“You know, you never answered me, Elf,” Varric called as they left the bar. “You’d do well with a hobby or two!”

"I already told you, I have hobbies."

"Not the dancing thing again," Varric groaned.

“See you tomorrow, Dwarf,” Fenris said over his shoulder, smirking as Varric waved at their backs.

The walk back to Hightown was uneventful, which was a surprise. Hawke mused that it probably had to do with how much he’d been patrolling with Aveline and Anders come nightfall this past month. They’d been working overtime, trying to keep the city feeling a modicum of safety as tensions with the Qunari rose to new heights. It had been his way of making up time to Anders as well; after their argument, his friend had come to him, contrite, and asked that they start over. Hawke had been happy to oblige.

Fenris had later commented that it was a stupid decision, but he’d amended that Hawke was nothing if not caring. It had been a peaceful few weeks after that, one where Hawke had tried to respect Fenris’ discomfort around Anders as much as possible while not stepping on the other mage’s toes.

As they wandered through the streets together, the warmth of summer falling in an ethereal blanket about their shoulders, Hawke knew why Fenris hadn’t answered Varric in the tavern. Sure, he was a private person, but the real reason, the one Hawke suspected Fenris didn’t want to broadcast, went deeper than that.

In his free time, Fenris had been visiting Hawke.

It was frequent enough that Hawke looked forward to it by the week, but never scheduled strictly enough that he could know when their time together would be. When Fenris had a moment, however, he would drop by and they would make tea. Hawke would try his hand at some pastry recipe in the kitchens while the tea steeped, and they'd talk. They would enjoy each other's company. And slowly, Fenris would relax enough to be able to take out his books. With their tea in hand and some flaky sugar treats on a plate by them on the floor, Hawke would walk Fenris through reading and writing practice in his library.

At times, when Hawke was setting up the tea, he would catch Fenris out of the corner of his eye running his hands over the spines of books. In those moments, Hawke felt such an ache, a deep and protective stab at his core, that he could scarcely breathe. The idea that someone so intuitive had been denied the worlds within books, the escapes and journeys and ideas, was painful to ruminate on. As if to make up for it, Hawke had become somewhat of a diligent tutor.

Aveline had helped him figure out where to start, and had not asked Hawke any questions. From then on, Fenris was a regular at the Hawke estate.

Not that he really needed Hawke, once he found his momentum. Fenris was sharp, and their sessions together were less like lessons and more like guided self-study. Hawke never made a spectacle of his learning abilities. He knew that to compliment the elf too much would rub a raw spot into his soul, would make him uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He focused on balancing his praise with what little expertise he had. Truth be told, it was painfully little. He asked his mother for suggestions on how best to challenge Fenris next, and in his free time Hawke even found himself running through Common’s orthography, just to remind himself should Fenris ask why something was spelled a particular way.

But it was clear, Fenris was well on his way to being able to read on his own completely.

Actually, it had been a bit of a surprise when Fenris had asked about Hawke’s availability tonight. It wasn't as if he _needed_ Hawke to study, and tomorrow they had plans to hike out to the Bone Pit. There was yet another mining issue that Hawke was stressing over, in fear for his workers, and they were going to do their best to work out a solution on the morrow. Tonight however, at Fenris’ suggestion, they were going to bake something savory and decadent and pore over some books.

They didn’t speak much as they walked back from the Hanged Man. Since Hawke had given him the book of Shartan, he himself had actually relaxed around Fenris too. He no longer struggled to fill the silence that sometimes found them; he merely enjoyed that he had Fenris at his side. It was a first for the normally smart-mouthed mage, to find himself enjoying the quiet. Carver would've never believed it even if he saw it.

Smiling to himself as the thought occurred to him, Hawke unlocked the door to his estate and ushered Fenris in before him with a polite wave.

“Garrett, I’m glad you’re back,” Hawke’s mother called as he entered the mansion, “I have a question about-” she stopped, startled, and held her hand over her heart with a little laugh. “Oh! You have company! I’m sorry dear, I had no idea.”

“Mother,” Hawke started to ask after what her question had been, but his mother waved him off. She looked amused, and oddly enough like she was happy.

“I’ll go light a few candles in the library while you get settled, shall I?”

“Don’t go through any trouble, miss,” Fenris said lamely, looking a bit ill at the way Leandra always insisted on fussing over him when he visited.

“I wasn’t doing much else, dear, it’s alright,” she said with a laugh.

Fenris’ ears actually seemed to tilt backwards a bit, possibly from embarrassment, and Hawke placed his hand on the elf’s lower back to guide him away.

“Well that’s enough awkward family bonding for one night,” he teased. “I’ve not forgotten your elusive lead-in, you know. I will have the full conversation before I’m out tomorrow morning!”

“Off with you, Garrett,” his mother said, shaking her head at his tone.

“Yes, let’s go,”  Fenris muttered under his breath, moving towards the kitchens with Hawke’s hand still on the small of his back. Leandra gave Hawke a small tilt of her head and with a swish of her skirts was off towards the library.

“What are you craving tonight specifically?” Hawke asked once the kitchen door shut behind them. “We’ve got a new blend of tea leaves from Antiva if you’re keen.”

“Will they go well with whatever you’ve made for us?”

“That depends on what you’re craving,” Hawke teased.

“I’ll let you decide,” Fenris said. “I suggested blackberries earlier. But you might not have any.”

Hawke opened the pantry door as Fenris prepared the tea, searching for something to make.

“We need to go to the market sometime this week,” Hawke mumbled. “I’ve completely run out of all things berry.”

“You made the pastry earlier this morning, did you not?” Fenris asked. “Couldn’t we just eat it plain?”

Behind him Hawke could hear the clink of ceramic cups being placed on saucers. He moved a few jars around, rummaging as he tried to think.

“It’s baked, but it’s less of a pastry and more of a flatbread.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well yes," Hawke chuckled. "It’s essentially flavorless on its own. I thought we’d have something we could spread on top of it. It needs a bit of oomph.”

“Alright, then. What do you have at your disposal?” Fenris asked, and Hawke stiffened slightly as the elf came up behind him to peer into the pantry with him. Fenris’ hand was at his shoulder, resting gently, and Hawke could barely breathe.

Fenris hadn’t mentioned sleeping beside him since he broke Hawke's fever all those weeks ago. The way Hawke had held him, and then given him a chaste little kiss, seemed destined to be glossed over. Hawke assumed that his persistent company indicated the elf wasn’t uncomfortable with it. He figured it best not to mention it if Fenris didn’t… but Maker he wanted to. He wanted to ask if it could happen again. He wanted to ask if Fenris thought about it like he did, if Fenris woke up holding a pillow to his chest like Hawke did. He wanted-

“Actually,” Fenris said softly, “you have the making of something delicious here. Mind if I play with the ingredients a bit?”

“Be my guest,” Hawke breathed, pleased at the request.

He liked how it sounded. Fenris’s voice was eager, distracted, and it gave Hawke a chance to turn back to the tea.

“You take care of that, then, and I’ll warm the pastry to bring to the library.”

“I can’t promise it’ll be any good,” Fenris warned, grabbing a few jars from the shelves inside the pantry. “But I think I remember what it’s supposed to taste like.”

“I’ll be happy to try anything you make,” Hawke said, placing the flatbread he’d made earlier into the slowburning embers of the oven. His mother must have only just finished having dinner. It was just warm enough to toast the bread without burning it. Fenris opened the vacuum-sealed glass jars one by one, with a small exhale as each of their lids popped free, and then turned to Hawke over his shoulder.

“Can you bring me a knife, a pot filled with a bit of water, and a wooden spoon?”

“Anything else?” Hawke asked, gathering the tools with relative ease.

His mother kept a spotless kitchen, and once he’d shown an interest in baking, she’d stocked it with helpful trinkets for his last birthday. As he turned back to hand them to Fenris with the cutlery in hand, he noticed the elf had taken off his gloves and lain them on the counter. His arms bare to his elbows, his lyrium tattoos flickering in the moonlight from the open window, Fenris took the instruments with steady fingers and began to arrange them in front of himself.

If he noticed Hawke staring, he said nothing of it.

“No, that’ll do.”

Fenris moved over to the pot with water, then, holding a jar of what smelled like peaches. He had laid out a small pouch of brown sugar and a bag of dried something or other on the counter beside it. Beyond that was a handful of fresh green herbs, though Hawke couldn’t identify in the low light which ones they were. Perhaps Fenris had judged them based off of smell?

“What are you making?”

“Patience, Hawke.”

“You can make patience? You’ll have to give Isabela the recipe.”

“You are a child sometimes, you know that, right?” Fenris sighed.

“You like me.”

“Oh, quiet,” Fenris turned, his eyes bright with mischief and an unexpected smirk on his lips.

It was so rare that he looked that way, so unexpected every time, that Hawke immediately burst into a smile. Fenris let out an exasperated breath and waved the wooden spoon as if it were a wand to make Hawke disappear.

“Whatever I am making is a secret until I’m finished. Leave it be.”

“You know that just makes me want to know more,” Hawke said with a dastardly grin.

Fenris took the knife from the counter and began to roughly chop the herbs on a flat wooden block. He was holding one hand over the blunt part of the blade, as if protecting any stray bits of leaf from flying off once they’d been cut. He grinned down at his hands, refusing to answer Hawke, as if he indeed knew how prone Hawke was to teasing.

Scowling playfully, Hawke could see he wasn't going to win here.

“I’ll set the pot on the stove, then?” Hawke asked, seeking for something else to pry about.

“Alright,” Fenris answered. “And then take the tea tray and head to the library. I’ll meet you there shortly.”

“I don’t get to watch you work?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If I mess this up, I’d like to throw it out without you tasting it and pretending you like it, for one,” Fenris said with a sneer.

Hawke was about to protest, his lip curled to do so, when he realized that he probably would do just that. He let out his quelled defense with a sigh, one that seemed to amuse the elf as he transferred the herbs to the pot of water.

“And for two?”

“For two,” Fenris said, “I rarely cook for myself at home. I’m out of practice.”

“So?”

“So, I doubt watching me stir a pot will be as elegant as watching you bake.”

Hawke swallowed back a retort, stunned at the compliment.

Fenris thought _that_  was elegant? Usually he was elbow deep in flour when they had their study sessions, wearing an apron that barely covered his barrel chest and certainly did not help keep him from getting sugar in his beard.

Hawke paused, pleasure threading through his veins in a brief flare. Maybe Fenris thought  _he_  was elegant?

“Light this for me,” Fenris directed, lifting the pot to allow access underneath. Hawke snapped out of his reverie in an instant. He reached over and gave a flick of his wrist, casting a tiny flame down into the belly of the stove.

“See,” Hawke leaned against the counter as he watched Fenris move back to the jar of peaches. “I can be useful.”

“You have been, thank you,” Fenris replied.

“Will you remember to take the bread out in another minute or two?”

“I will. Now leave, before I chase you out.”

“Subjected to such nonsense in my own home,” Hawke pretended to fuss, moving over to the tea tray before Fenris could see how pleased he was at the comment. “Well I never.”

It took a bit longer than expected for Fenris to complete the… whatever he was making. In his absence, Hawke picked out some of the books they’d started on earlier that week. He had double copies of them, had picked them up in the market for a discounted price, and he marked them with colored ink as Fenris used them for his practice. On the desk, Hawke laid out fresh parchment paper, and to the side he set the ones they’d used since the beginning. Those held the alphabet and different combinations of letters on them, and Fenris liked to glance them over at first before they began reading as he drank his tea.

After he’d set up their space, however, Hawke still had to wait. He was sorely tempted to go downstairs to help, or to lurk. He wasn’t sure which he would do more of given the chance. But Fenris had asked him to stay upstairs, and shown surprising openness in doing so. Hawke couldn’t disrespect that... no matter how badly he wanted to see what Fenris was doing.

He ended up setting a pile of pillows on the floor by the fireplace, with the tea tray balanced on the stone hearth only close enough to keep the pot slightly warm. He sat there, paging through books he might encourage Fenris to try to read today, until there was a little throat-clear from just outside the doorway.

Standing there, the warm bread on a platter in one hand and a bowl of something in the other, was Fenris. He looked uncertain, doubly so when Hawke leapt up to grab the flatbread from him.

“That smells divine,” Hawke whispered, allowing his fingers to brush against Fenris’ when he took the platters.

He had his gloves back on, metal separating skin from skin, and Hawke had to stifle the surge of disappointment in his chest.

“It is similar to what I remember,” Fenris said quietly, his words stilted, as if he were hesitant to even mention such a thing. “I do not think it’s exactly the same, but it’s close enough. The ingredients being non-native might make the recipe a bit lackluster.”

“You remembered this recipe from…”

“Tevinter. Yes.”

Hawke narrowed his eyes as Fenris moved over to the desk to grab his papers, situating himself afterwards in the pillows by the fire with the practice papers in hand.

“This… isn’t a bad memory for you, is it?” Hawke asked, hesitant and suddenly uncomfortable. The dishes felt too heavy in his hands. “You didn’t have to make this for Danarius, or anything, did you?”

Fenris looked up from the floor, his eyes wide in shock. He seemed to fumble for an explanation, as if the question had taken him completely off guard and he didn’t know how to reply. Hawke watched his expression move from surprise into frigidity, finally settling into his go-to skepticism.

“I was never Danarius’ cook, Hawke. I was his bodyguard, his pet. You know this.”

Hawke couldn’t say anything. Whenever Fenris’ past was mentioned, he found he went quiet, his defense mechanism to try to keep from making horrible, tactless jokes. It rarely worked, but Hawke still tried.

His silence seemed to help, at least, in this case. Fenris relaxed his expression back to neutrality, his eyes still holding ghosts of his past even as his jaw unclenched.

“One of my first memories after the tattoos was this dish. I remember an old slave-woman who made it every night for herself with overripe peaches and crushed peppers. She would eat it with her bread crusts. Whenever she could, she would share it with me."

Fenris inclined his head, his gaze sharp but not unkind.

"So, no. It is not a bad memory for me.”

“Oh.” Hawke could feel his shoulders fall in relief. “Good.”

“You thought I’d willingly make something Danarius forced me to make?” Fenris asked, his brow furrowing. “For you?”

“No, I just-”

“You’re not stupid, Hawke," Fenris interrupted. "Try and think before you blurt the first thing that comes to mind next time. No matter how well-intended it is.”

Without another word, Fenris settled back into the pillows, the fire crackling before him. He made no indication as to whether or not he was upset. Hawke couldn’t tell by his tone of voice, and his words could have been gentle ribbing or a serious rebuke. When Fenris used that dry tone, it left everyone rather in the dark to his true meaning. Hawke hesitated, debating whether or not he should leave, whether or not he had overstepped himself, until Fenris cleared his throat.

“It’s hard to study with you hovering all the way over there,” he murmured, animosity completely gone from his voice. “Come. Sit with me.”

“R-right,” Hawke replied, and he moved over to the pillows with both trays before Fenris could change his mind. As he set the tray down away from the papers, Hawke finally got a good look at what was in the bowl.

Fenris had made a type of jam, and he'd brought over a pat of soft goat cheese in a little dish beside it. Without glancing up at Hawke, Fenris reached out and tore off a hunk of the flatbread. Using a metal spoon, he spread first a thin layer of cheese on the toasted bread, then scooped a small pat of the jam on top.

Hawke didn’t expect the elf to then hold out his hand, offering the first taste instead of taking it for himself. He hesitated for a moment, then instinct took over.

Leaning forward, Hawke took the little hunk of bread into his mouth, his lips barely grazing Fenris’ fingertips as he did so. He watched as Fenris stiffened, obviously not immune to the sensation, but then the elf seemed to force himself to relax. He let out a long exhale and did not make eye contact. He seemed intent on reading the same practice page as Hawke chewed, brushing his hand free of crumbs before he touched the parchment.

"Maker, this is delicious," Hawke blurted.

Fenris snorted, the papers below him rustling with his laugh.

"Let me know if it's too much."

It was sweet peach jam, but none like Hawke had ever tasted. Brown sugar, a smidge of lemon juice, maybe a touch of mint? It was delicious with the creamy goat cheese.

But then, followed directly after the first few bites, was a tremendous heat. Inadvertently, Hawke’s reflex was to gasp, swallow, then start to choke. He turned to the side, holding a hand up to his face as he sputtered, and tried to get the rest of the snack down. He managed to swallow it all with difficulty, and once his mouth was clear he let loose a volley of unrestrained coughs until his throat was clear of the prickling sensation. Even so, the telltale tingle of spice lingered on his tongue and the corner of his lips no matter how hard he swallowed.

He turned back to ask Fenris what kind of trick he’d pulled, but the elf was merely holding out a teacup filled with tea.

“I’ll put more cheese on your next bite,” Fenris said, smiling to himself as Hawke took the cup in both hands.

“What… did you put in that?”

“It’s a spicy jam,” Fenris replied, shrugging and flipping over the page to the back side. “I did not realize you were sensitive to dried peppers. You had them in your cupboard after all.”

“The ones-" oh no. "Fenris, I bought those on a dare.”

“I'm... afraid I don’t understand.”

“They weren't a serious ingredient I keep in my kitchen for cooking," Hawke tried to explain. "Varric was taking bets as to who could eat a whole one of these at the bar the other day, and I bought them in bulk for the challenge. Don’t you remember? Just last week?”

“I remember you doing something strange at the bar with food, but I had other plans. So, no.”

That’s right. Anders had politely refused to participate, he’d left the tavern after one tankard saying he had errands to run. After a moment, Fenris had followed, saying something about meeting someone just nearby. Hawke had thought it mildly suspicious at the time, but had said nothing of it. If the two of them wanted to miss out on a chance to burn their tongues off, Hawke figured he should let them. The rest of his friends had put up their coins and gotten the bar patrons to throw in as well.

Isabela had eaten two mouthfuls, half a pepper. Merrill had devolved into a sneezing fit after only one bite. Hawke had only managed to eat slightly more than Isabela, a fact that he lorded over her even as his eyes watered for the next hour. Varric had come in second, choking down all but one bite of the damn thing, whereas Aveline in all her stubbornness had shoved the whole pepper into her mouth at once. Hawke had never seen her turn so red, or sweat so much, not even during summer training regimens. She’d pocketed seven sovereigns, and said the next day it hadn’t been worth it.

“How many peppers did you use in the jam, Fenris?”

“Only four.”

“F-four!” Hawke sputtered.

"Yes, four. I cooked them down and made sure to take out the seeds, so they're mainly for flavor, not spice."

Fenris glanced over now, and his apparent amusement faded.

“You… really don’t like it?” he asked, tilting his head with a look of concern flitting over his features. A muscle in his jaw tightened visibly, and he muttered, “You should have warned me. I would never have made this had I-”

“I do, I do like it,” Hawke said.

It wasn’t a lie, either, even though Fenris immediately sneered as if it was one.

“I’m weak to the spice," Hawke admitted, "but the flavors of the mint, the sweetness coming together with the heat, it’s complex and it’s _good_.”

“It’s causing you physical discomfort,” Fenris muttered. "I can see tears in the corner of your eyes."

“Doesn’t mean it’s not delicious,” Hawke drawled, waggling his eyebrows even as his eyes continued to water, even as he had to cough into his hand once more.

“I will not be offended if you abstain,” Fenris said quietly. “Do not force yourself on my account.”

“I _want_ to try it again,” Hawke insisted. “Just… with more cheese, like you said.”

“Mmm.”

The elf looked oddly disappointed. It was an expression that Hawke very rarely ever saw from Fenris. He hastened to make it go away however he could. Tearing off a hunk of bread, he took the spoon from where Fenris had rested it on the bowl’s rim and began to prepare the slice as Fenris had done.

“What are you doing?”

“Making another bite.”

“You’re putting too much on,” Fenris cautioned. "You're going to hurt yourself."

“This isn’t for me,” Hawke said, shaking his head. “This one’s for you.”

“Ah." Fenris sat back, immediately relaxed. "Well. Then you should add another spoonful.”

“You…” Hawke paused, the spoon frozen above the bowl, as he tried to decide whether or not Fenris was joking with him. “You sure?”

“I enjoy the heat,” Fenris said solemnly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With a glance cast sidelong Hawke’s way, he added, “Maybe your tongue is just too sensitive.”

Hawke’s heart beat out a heavy thump in his chest at the phrase. Immediately, he was too warm, his lips tingling incandescently from the leftover spice of the peach jam.

“And yours isn’t?” Hawke hinted, spooning out more of the jam, as requested, onto the hunk of bread in his hands. He spread it thickly, a glob of it precariously close to dripping over his fingers and onto the floor. His hand mercifully steady, Hawke held it out to Fenris.

The elf glanced over, and Hawke could see his fingers twitch as if he was about to reach up and grab it. A hesitance. A pause, while Fenris seemingly ran through his options of what to do next. Hawke couldn't just let him flounder. He spoke without thinking, yet again.

"I like this," Hawke said. "The jam itself, but the fact that you wanted to share it with me. Even if I say stupid things sometimes."

"It's an endearing trait of yours," Fenris murmured.

"Show me how it's done, then," Hawke said quietly. He'd meant for Fenris to show him how to handle the spiciness, how to eat something so hot without choking, but Fenris seemed to glean another meaning from it. Before Hawke could amend, or apologize, Fenris' fingertips were against Hawke’s pulse. Guiding his wrist forward, Fenris parted his lips for the treat.

Hawke didn’t know what came over him. Normally, he'd have a joke, something witty, something to keep them safe and in a place where they could joke about just how much they wanted each other. But nothing came to him. He watched, enthralled, frozen in place, as Fenris’ eyes focused on something lower than Hawke’s gaze. Hawke had seen him bare his teeth before, out of anger or malice or scorn. But he’d never seen Fenris open his mouth this wide and this delicately. It sent an unexpected jolt of arousal through Hawke’s body, an electric vibration that tried to escape his throat in the shape of a moan.

He withheld himself, just barely, as Fenris managed to get the entire hunk of bread into his mouth. As he chewed, Hawke expected him to release his wrist, but Fenris still held on. His index and middle finger rested lazily on the bones beneath Hawke’s tunic sleeve, skin to skin, and he was leaning forward seemingly without realizing it.

When Fenris’ eyes flicked up to meet his, Hawke could feel his lips part unconsciously. He knew he must have been wearing an idiotic expression, because Fenris’ eyes lit up with amusement. He swallowed, Hawke’s hand still poised hesitantly just shy of his lips, and then smirked. As if he’d won a challenge of some sort. As if he were competing in some unknown tournament, for some prize Hawke wasn’t aware of. He’d seen that look in Fenris’ eye when they were across the table from Varric, even when he was bluffing.

Especially when he was bluffing.

Hawke desperately wanted Fenris to win, though, whatever that meant. If it meant that Fenris would pin him with that look, haughty even through his heavy lashes, Hawke would throw any match he asked to.

“Is it-” Hawke cleared his throat a touch, lowered his voice, tried again. “Is it enough? Or do you want more?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, and Hawke realized belatedly how it could’ve been interpreted. Rather than apologize, rather than take it back, Hawke clenched his jaw and kept Fenris’ gaze. He was serious. He would give Fenris much more. But Fenris had to be the one to say the word..

“It wasn’t too much, if that’s what you’re asking,” Fenris said. Hawke was about to say something to that, about to ask what would be too much, too far, when Fenris gave a little noise of disapproval through his teeth. “Hawke. You’ve gotten it all over your hand.”

“I what?”

“Look,” Fenris tilted Hawke’s wrist to better show him what he meant, his grip a bit tighter now.

Sure enough, there was a dribble of peach jam along the knuckle of Hawke’s thumb. As Fenris twisted his wrist to show him in the firelight, it began to slip towards the pad of his finger, threatening to drop on the rug.

“Hold on let me get-”

Hawke turned, intent on trying to find a napkin, and so he didn’t see it before he felt it.

Fenris’ tongue on his finger, rough, and then pure warmth as the elf drew Hawke’s digit into his mouth completely. It was a jarring sensation, pleasure overload, and that was before Fenris even sucked. Hawke put out a hand to steady himself, the one Fenris didn’t have held to his lips, and let out a low groan despite himself. He looked back to the elf right as Fenris drew his tongue tighter over his finger, sensual and unnecessary, his eyes closed to Hawke’s distraught expression.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Hawke’s mind raced, his heart pounded, all in the span of a millisecond as he struggled to get his bearings and believe that this was real.

It took but a shift of his wrist for Hawke to trace his fingertips along Fenris’ jaw. Sitting on their knees facing one another, their bodies separate except for Fenris’ tongue along the whorl of Hawke’s fingertip and Fenris' fingers on his pulse, Hawke couldn’t explain why he felt so undone. A noise, a wet pop as Hawke inadvertently pressed down too much onto Fenris’ tongue and caused him to lose the vacuum with which he held Hawke in his mouth, was almost the limit of Hawke’s self-control. Even more so since Fenris merely pulled Hawke’s finger back in with his tongue, as if he’d missed another spot of jam.

Perhaps his tongue was more sensitive than he’d let on.

It was hardly anything, this touch. And yet it crashed into Hawke like a physical blow, shattering his every resolve, testing the mettle of his willpower. A swirl of Fenris’ tongue about his digit, and Hawke felt it pulse through his hips. An exhale against his knuckle, and Hawke imagined what it would feel like to have Fenris gasp for breath against his belly with his mouth full.

The idea of Fenris enjoying this as much as he was, it was almost too much to bear. How he’d kept silent this entire time, he had no idea. Hawke clenched his jaw hard, trying to keep his body in check, coming so close to failing. He could feel a tightening in his hips, a delicious slide of heat and pleasure, every lick at his finger coursing through his forearm into his core and pooling in torturous rapture down along his groin.

Sitting like this, with their knees just about touching, Fenris would be able to see immediately what he was doing to Hawke if he only glanced at his lap. Hawke knew he had to keep it together, to try to keep the signals firing in his brain from reaching places much lower. If he got visibly hard, Fenris would stop, he would pull back, he would feel strange-

Hawke never wanted him to feel anything except at ease.

But this… it was unprecedented, a bolder move than even Isabela had tried on him, and Hawke couldn’t recover. As much as Fenris seemed to enjoy his company, as much as Fenris invited Hawke to get closer to him as a person, he seemed to shy away from all things physical. To have him initiate this, to have him take the lead, Hawke was left puzzled and desperate and oddly cowed.

Fenris had to keep control for them both, or Hawke wasn’t going to be able to much longer, that was certain. Even now, even as Fenris swallowed and his mouth tightened around Hawke’s thumb, he was only a second away from pulling him into a ravaging kiss. A kiss he’d dreamt about for months, perhaps longer. A kiss he thought Fenris didn’t want.

Well. He seemed to want it now.

With a sigh, one Hawke didn’t know if he’d meant to let out, Fenris pulled Hawke’s hand free from his mouth and opened his eyes. His pupils were wide beneath heavy lids, his cheeks flushed, and there was no trace of uncertainty deepening the grooves of his brow. He was watching, waiting, almost expectantly.

Heart beating too loud, too fast, Hawke pressed onto the center of Fenris’ lower lip with his thumb. So gentle that he didn’t think Fenris would feel it. Immediately, the elf’s lips parted, and Hawke flattered himself that he heard a little gasp escape him.

“You must really like this jam,” Hawke murmured, and Fenris gave a wry smile that Hawke felt pull beneath his fingertips.

Out of his mind with want, testing boundaries as a fool would, Hawke dropped his hand. He held Fenris’ gaze, scooting closer so that their knees actually touched, and Fenris leaned forward as well. His eyes heavy, his lips slick from where Hawke had touched his fingertip to their center, Fenris still managed to look defiant. Even as he was edging closer, his hand by Hawke’s knee, he looked as if he were daring Hawke to ruin this moment.

Quickly, so that he wouldn’t have time to second-guess himself, Hawke took another heaping spoonful of the spicy jam from its bowl. Holding it between them, his hand less than steady, he gave Fenris a smirk.

“Want another taste?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Fenris said, tilting his chin forward with one eyebrow raised. “Seeing as you can’t handle it.”

Resolutely, mouth already watering, Hawke put the entire spoonful into his own mouth. He held it there for a second, enough time to register Fenris’ immediate reaction of shock and horror. He could taste peach and sweetness so delicious it made his tongue ache, the flavors melting into him as Fenris watched, aghast. For a precious second, there was no pain.

As soon as Hawke made to chew and swallow, the heat sank into him. It was amazing, how long it took to creep up. He tried to play coy as he swallowed his mouthful, but his eyes sent tears down his cheek as soon as he blinked, and he had to clear his throat with a long, rumbling growl.

Fenris, surprisingly, began to laugh.

“You idiot!" he cried. "Why did you do that?”

“Quick,” Hawke bit out between gasps. “Kiss me.”

Fenris’ jaw fell slack, the shock of the request instinctive and quick.

“You want me to-”

“Please, Fenris, kiss me,” Hawke whispered, a plaintive noise, the heat from the spice mingling with the desire in his chest.

He didn’t have to ask a third time. Fenris leaned forward, a hand on Hawke’s cheek, and Hawke parted his lips for him in desperation. It was gentler than Hawke expected, merely a small brush of the lips as they both inhaled simultaneously, and then Fenris was pulling away for a breath. Before Hawke could do more than register the touch, Fenris’ hands were on either side of Hawke’s jaw. His knee pushed between Hawke’s legs, gently forcing them apart and tearing a low moan from Hawke’s mouth.

It was so much gentler than what Hawke had envisioned, as if the merest touch were enough to startle Fenris into being uncertain once more. Hawke felt Fenris’ tongue slide gently against his lips, just as he had done against Hawke’s thumb. He was tasting him, Hawke realized, and the thought broke him. He moaned into Fenris’ mouth, allowing him to deepen the kiss, drawing him further into himself in a sliding, delectable dance.

His hands flitted about Fenris’ chest, his shoulders, the sharpness of his armor preventing Hawke from finding a strong purchase point. Neither of them rose up from where they sat back on the floor, even as Fenris’ knee rested casually, perhaps unintentionally, against the straining tent in Hawke’s trousers. It was as if they both understood that some distance needed to be maintained if they were to keep any leftover control. If they were to keep from tearing each other apart.

Hawke could taste peaches and biting heat, even as Fenris’ canines grazed over his lower lip and drew it forward in a nibble. Prickling and warm, painful and sweet, the kiss was a contradiction of sensation, one feeling heightening the other. So sensitive, too sensitive, Hawke was out of breath and yearning without Fenris doing more than tasting him.

When Fenris dragged his curved tongue along the edge of Hawke’s, drawing it deep into his own mouth, Hawke could only whimper. When Fenris took Hawke’s upper lip between his own, kissing it with a chasteness that did not match the low groan he let escape, Hawke gasped in answer. When Fenris’ hand massaged gentle circles along Hawke’s jaw, his taloned gauntlet catching against his beard, Hawke wished he had the power to rise up and push Fenris down to the floor.

But he sat there, allowing himself to be teased, to be explored, to feel the pleasure and the pain and to taste peaches in lieu of spice.

Hawke had no idea how long they sat there, drawing steadily closer, Fenris’ knee now dragging lewdly against the way Hawke’s cock was straining in his trousers. Ashamed and aroused, Hawke felt himself grinding forward in an easy rhythm, one Fenris would not be able to misunderstand, not with the way his breathing was quickening alongside every slow thrust. With every slide, Hawke leaned further forward, his hands drawing patterns down Fenris’ neck, his chest, down to his slender waist. He moved his own leg to get more comfortable, just a simple flex of the thigh, and Fenris hissed against him.

Breaking the kiss, Hawke glanced down, an apology on the edge of his lips. He didn’t expect Fenris to tap beneath his chin with his knuckle, a gesture meant to keep Hawke’s eyes aloft. Hawke didn’t fight it, merely sighed past the lingering sting leftover on his lips. He blinked a few times, trying to gather himself, and made bleary eye contact with the elf before him.

Fenris looked deeply shaken. Hawke had seen him like this only once before, when they’d first met and Fenris had been convinced that Danarius was not far behind… but then the magister hadn’t shown. To have been so certain of something, only to have it yanked from beneath you like a dusty rug, had to be incredibly jarring. But Hawke couldn’t tell what had brought the expression on in this moment. Had the kiss been lackluster?

“Why did you stop?” Hawke whispered.

“I…” Fenris’ brow furrowed, but Hawke noticed he did not pull physically away. He glanced to the side, as if controlling his response, mulling over its consequences.

Hawke was never one for mulling.

“I liked it,” Hawke murmured, and Fenris seemed to soften at that. “If I can improve, if I can kiss you in a way you like more, please tell-”

“ _Fenhedis_ ,” Fenris breathed, a curse drawn out in a whisper, “no, it’s nothing like that.”

“Then what?” Hawke asked, his hands still at Fenris’ waist. With a jolt, Hawke realized that Fenris was leaning forward. The elf rested his hand on Hawke’s thigh, sliding along the muscle, stopping just short of his hip.

“I’m no good at this,” Fenris said by way of answer, his voice rough. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

"Oh, you could have fooled me," Hawke practically moaned.

"I'm serious, Hawke."

"I know. If you want, if it will help... I can show you what to do,” Hawke whispered, and he had the sudden vivid, earthshattering image of what it would be like to guide Fenris’ hand a little to the left. Would Fenris touch him, if Hawke asked? His cock twitched at the mere thought, and Hawke wondered if Fenris could feel the muscles in his leg leap as well. The elf shifted, pulling his palm closer to Hawke’s knee and out of the more sensitive zone.

“I know you could,” he replied, dark confidence in his tone. He brought his eyes back to Hawke’s, and Hawke almost laughed in relief. Fenris wanted him. Desire was an easy read, especially on Fenris. He looked agitated by it, as if wanting something so badly was an affront. Hawke smiled as his gaze dipped down to take in Fenris’ curled lip.

“Will you let me?”

“I… shouldn’t,” Fenris said, and Hawke’s eyes flashed back to meet the elf’s. “We should stop here.”

It was a plea. It was not firm, and it was not confident. Fenris was begging Hawke to help him stop, and Hawke knew that if he pushed, he could get what he wanted in this moment. Fenris’ control was on its last leg as well. In confessing this, in admitting this, he was leaving it in Hawke’s hands where they went next.

A thousand scenarios ran through Hawke’s mind in the span of a single heartbeat. He could reach out and pull Fenris closer to his chest, both men rising on their knees so that they could embrace more fully. He could slip his own fingers down low, tracing against where he was almost certain Fenris was painfully hard, exactly as Hawke was.

He thought about kissing him again, until the elf was dizzy, until he was begging for more instead of asking for patience. Hawke could do it easily, could push Fenris to his back, lift his hips, and undo his armor without the elf’s help. He would watch as Fenris covered his eyes with his hands, unsure of how to take his own pleasure, and Hawke would bend his head low to Fenris’ waiting cock. He would let Fenris fuck his mouth until his throat was sore, and he would show him how good Fenris was at this.

Another heartbeat passed, loud and echoing in Hawke’s ears, and he returned to himself. Across from him, Fenris was still waiting for an answer. Or a challenge. The look on Fenris’ face was one of irritated vulnerability, and Hawke knew what he had to do to save them both.

Taking a steadying breath, Hawke released his hold on Fenris’ waist. The elf kept his hand on Hawke’s knee, and Hawke could see him swallow hard.

“Then we stop here,” Hawke promised. “We don’t do anything you don't want to do.”

He took both of his hands and set them down on his own lap. Fenris withdrew from him as well, sitting back into his haunches and giving Hawke a look that was difficult to read.

“What about you, Hawke?”

“What about me?” Hawke asked, turning to the peach jam and bread. He made sure to spread a copious amount of goat cheese on the hunk of flatbread before adding a tiny spot of the spiced jam to its top.

“You’re satisfied with stopping?”

“Maker, no,” Hawke laughed, and he popped the hunk of bread in his mouth as he turned back to the elf.

As he chewed, he watched Fenris’ expression drop into a glower, like he thought Hawke was making fun of him. In an effort to reassure, Hawke reached out and found Fenris’ hand.

"But at the same time, I am. Because you're still here. And knowing that you want to be here is enough for me," Hawke said, his tone gentle, the words heartfelt. Had he any modicum of shame, he would've blushed at the romanticism hidden there, but he didn't allow himself to think on it for long.

The elf’s taloned fingers shifted, spreading to allow Hawke to intertwine their hands together and to hold them tight. He still looked frustrated, but before Hawke could stop to think about why, Fenris leaned forward and tilted his head just so.

Without thinking, Hawke met him halfway for the kiss. It was smoother this time, less pain and more patience. Fenris’ breath fluttered gently against Hawke’s cheek, a withheld moan shuddering through them both. Only when Fenris’ tongue prodded gently against his bottom lip did Hawke break the kiss with difficulty.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, but he couldn’t tell if it was to Fenris, or to himself.

As if stunned by the remark, Fenris leaned forward and rested his forehead against Hawke’s. He gave a small sigh, and then pulled away completely as he resituated by the papers. Hawke glanced down briefly, marveling that none of them had gotten crushed as they shuffled closer together only moments ago. It had only been a few minutes, but Maker it felt like longer.

“My tea will be cold,” Hawke said, the first thing that came to mind, and it came out in such a petulant tone that he was surprised when Fenris barked a laugh.

“All the better to cool that sensitive tongue of yours,” the elf said, though whether it was with derision or sensuality, Hawke couldn’t tell. Perhaps a bit of both.

He didn’t ask, though, and didn't tease further. He scooted closer to Fenris’ side, pulling his legs out from under himself with difficulty, and relaxed into the pillows. As the candles lit about the library flickered in the summer breeze, as Fenris read through one of the books he'd chosen from Hawke's library, Hawke licked his lips and reveled in the taste of peaches and heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm surprised at the turn this took. Not usually into foodplay, but the idea just kind of took off on its own.
> 
> I usually tag stuff at this level with explicit, but the next chapter will most likely be even more... intimate. Uncertain-yet-firm Fenris is my jam. My spicy peach jam.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry, I don't like adding on and adding on when I say I'm gonna end a fic at a certain point. But otherwise this chapter would've been too long, and there's a lot I want to keep in here! Forgiiiiive meeeeee <3
> 
> Not the last chapter, and not the most explicit. Basically just another taste ^^;

One of the beautiful things about living in Kirkwall had to be the sheer amount of distractions. Even though most of them were base, crass, or potentially deadly, Hawke was becoming more and more grateful for errands.

Isabela, however, seemed less so.

“Sundermount?” she whined, setting her tankard on the bar with a clack. “Hawke! We were just there!”

“We have to go back,” Hawke said. “I’ve found this scroll-”

“Ugh! Who’s going with you?” Isabela interrupted.

“I…” Hawke paused, then tried his hand at a deceptively relaxed smirk. “I assumed you would.”

“You’re asking me now, so I assumed that too,” Isabela replied. “I meant who else?”

“Aveline, most likely.”

“She’s got that thing with Donnic! She can't go!”

“What thing?” Hawke demanded.

“Some awkward romantic dinner thing,” Isabela sighed. “I agreed to do Merrill’s hair for it and everything.”

“Isabela-”

“Oh,” the Rivaini snapped her fingers, then pointed at Hawke with a wink. “Engagement dinner. That’s what it’s called.”

Hawke blanched.

“They’re engaged?! But she only just-”

“No.” Isabela put down her mead once more, with a look on her face that said she was very close to ignoring Hawke entirely. “This is the dinner where they will get engaged. The engagement dinner.”

“Well, why wasn’t I invited then? I practically thrust the two of them together, so to speak.”

“I was there. And nobody was invited, per se.”

“Then… why are you doing Merrill’s hair for it?”

“We plan on running into them directly after. And forcing them to celebrate with us.”

“So,” Hawke tried to suppress a chuckle and failed. “You’re telling me that you plan on crashing Aveline’s proposal.”

“Hey,” Isabela raised an eyebrow over the rim of her rising tankard. “You were the one who took Merrill with us on that sweet little gesture extravaganza to win Donnic over in the first place. She’s had romance on the brain ever since.” She took a drink, a wicked look in her eyes. “And I have to admit, it’s quite contagious.”

Hawke swallowed hard. It was, indeed, a bit difficult to keep his mind off of such things, but not for the reasons Isabela listed. Fenris had also been along for that ridiculous back and forth, and one thing he’d said had stood out to Hawke. They'd been in the tavern not far from where they sat now, after another failed attempt to rally Aveline into confessing her true feelings. Training Aveline with an intensity he was known for, Fenris had uttered one phrase.

_“You’re squandering something you don’t understand.”_

Hawke blinked, staring at the bar, a wave of regret and yearning washing over him in a quick crash. He wondered why it had felt like it had been directed at him instead of the guard captain. The memory was over as soon as it overwhelmed him, and he lifted one corner of his mouth with a wink of his own.

“Don’t tell me you’re about to buy me flowers,” he teased. “I’d like it to be a surprise.”

“I bet you would, love,” Isabela purred.

“So you won’t be available,” Hawke ticked off his fingers, sighing as he leaned onto the bar counter. “Merrill won’t be available. And Aveline certainly won’t be.”

“You can grab Anders and Varric,” Isabela suggested. “They’re usually not doing anything.”

“Varric already declined. Something about his next manuscript for Hard in Hightown. And Anders has been acting strange lately,” Hawke said, shaking his head. “I’ve been giving him a wide berth until he calms down.”

“Have a little lover’s quarrel did you?”

“No, you’d have to be lovers to have that,” Hawke countered.

“And you’d have to be blind to think Anders doesn’t have a bit of a thing for cute scruffy mage boys like yourself,” Isabela immediately riposted.

“Fondness of my rugged good looks aside,” Hawke said, frowning despite the playfulness, “we are not involved like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Isabela narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Have you told him that?”

“Yes, snoop.”

"Wha-"

"I know you glanced through my diary the last time you were over. Don't try to deny it."

“I wasn't going to. And you think I’m a snoop just because I care enough about you to glance at your most private of thoughts?”

"Yes. You sneaky girl."

Secretly he felt a gush of relief. She hadn't found the actual journal he kept beneath his mattress, the ones where he recorded dreams he'd had the previous night. She'd just found his everyday one, the one he'd set out as a decoy.

"Well, I worry about you sometimes. That's all. Thought you and him had a big fight from the way you've been moping."

Hawke felt his jaw clench, and uncertainty welled up. Isabela wasn’t normally so straightforward with her fondness. Normally, they joked back and forth so much that they could go weeks without saying anything of substance to one another. Normally, if he tried to broach serious subjects with her, she would roll her eyes and groan and ask him to buy her a drink first. In cases like this, Hawke could only answer with honesty as well.

“Not moping. I’ve needed time to myself, if you want to know the truth. Away from some of his opinions.”

“Hmph. He finally break it to you that you need to trim your beard, or what?”

“No,” Hawke sighed. “Nothing like that. My beard is beautiful and well-maintained.”

It had been more personal. A comment about an infatuation, a question of judgment, an insinuation that Hawke had made a poor choice with his own emotions. Even now, the comments stung. Anders had pulled him aside on Hawke’s last visit to his clinic and asked him about his relationship with Fenris. Told him that he disapproved, that he worried about Fenris’ judgment on Hawke’s magic, and that he would treat Hawke right if he were in the same position. Hawke had blustered past that, unable to process why Anders was even admitting that in the first place. They had argued, mainly because a part of Hawke cared what Anders thought and because a bigger part of Hawke hated that about himself.

“As fun as it is to watch you mull things over silently,” Isabela muttered, “I don’t like how morose you look lately.”

“I’m not morose.”

“You haven’t come with me to skinny dip in weeks!”

“Because the water you decide to push me in is always filthy,” Hawke laughed.

“Which is why we take our clothes off first, regardless,” Isabela waved off his protest. “It seems Fenris is the only one who can accompany you to the mountain tomorrow. At least you’ll look cheery next to him.”

“Why, because of his brooding?”

“No, you big tease,” Isabela smirked. “Because I’ve seen how you look at him. You can’t help but smile when he walks in the room.”

“Oh.” Hawke could feel his expression lift even now, even as he tried to restrain himself. “You’re exaggerating.”

“No, darling,” Isabela said, shaking her head. “Telling you that I would sell your soul without batting an eyelash is an exaggeration.”

“How is that an exaggeration?” Hawke sputtered. “You literally did that just last week! For a non-existent  _boat_!”

“I know,” she said, tossing back the rest of her drink in one gulp. “But I blinked as I did so. Twice.”

Hawke laughed, damn her, a little noise escaping him as he tapped the bar and ordered another drink. He usually did this with Isabela; he’d plan to leave, then get strung up in conversation, and kill hours all while pretending to say goodbye.

“How are you and Fenris doing?” she asked as the bartender poured him an ale. "You didn't mention him on your list of people you'd bring with you to Sundermount."

“Good,” Hawke asked, a flutter of stupid hope in his chest at the question. "We're good."

Isabela continued to tease and prod and avoid, as was her way, just a dueling dance of conversation that Hawke followed easily. Throughout the night, however, the common theme came back to romance. Hawke wasn’t sure at first if Isabela was hinting hard to get him to go with her to the dinner the following night, or if she was trying to get a bead on where Hawke’s true feelings lay. By the time he was walking home, however, his mind was too occupied with thoughts of proposals, confessions, and relationships to be able to sleep.

Tipsy and daydreaming, Hawke decided to take a longer walk.

He found himself on the edge of Hightown, on the balcony that overlooked the lower streets of Kirkwall. Wind blowing through his hair, Hawke sighed deeply and let himself fall into his feelings for the first time in a while.

Ever since their first kiss, Hawke hadn’t been able to keep Fenris from his mind, but he had kept it surface. Physical fantasies only, nothing romantic. It had been weeks since that night in the library, so long that the summer air had turned crisp with a chill of oncoming autumn, and Fenris had not mentioned a thing. He still came over every now and again, though less frequently, and Hawke never felt less than at ease around the elf. It seemed as if everything was as it was.

Which meant that they hadn’t kissed since. They had laughed, talked, leaned upon one another, and once Fenris had even fallen asleep on Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke had been narrating a tale of Ferelden legends aloud, and halfway through he’d become aware of soft, fluttering breaths at his shoulder. He’d continued reading, his lips resting against Fenris’ hair, until the elf woke up.

But Fenris hadn’t been physically bold again since that night, since he had pulled Hawke’s tongue to his and held Hawke captive with his earnest desire.

Hawke told himself he was respecting Fenris’ initiative, but that felt like a lie even in his own mind. The truth of it was, physically encroaching on Fenris terrified him. Hawke was scared that if he moved forward, Fenris would dance backwards, and he’d be left with less than what they currently were.

Even if what they currently were wasn't enough for him.

Sighing deeply, he hung over the rail and watched Lowtown glimmer with faintly-lit oil lamps. Kirkwall was rarely still, but at this time of the evening it was the quietest it got. Dogs howled in the distance, birds cawed softly beyond, and winged insects gave their last dying cries of the summer. Surrounded by the soft cacophony of the sleeping city, Hawke knew that he was deliberately avoiding, just as Aveline had.

He was being a coward, and he was falling in love. It was getting increasingly difficult to do both without feeling like his life was taking a hectic turn, so he’d been trying to keep himself distracted as much as possible.

It wasn’t easy, admitting he was falling in love in the first place. After seeing Aveline’s pursuit of Donnic, after she asked him for advice, Hawke realized that he could barely sort out his own feelings… trying to predict Fenris’ was nigh near impossible. But he felt them. That should count for something.

And it wasn’t as if Fenris wanted nothing to do with him, right? Fenris spoke fondly of Hawke to others. Just a week or so ago over cards, Fenris had called him ‘admirable’, which was so pleasant that Hawke had had to make a stupid joke when the words were barely out of the elf’s mouth. Fenris hadn’t seemed bothered. He’d agreed with Isabela when she’d asked Hawke to cast little firefly-like lights above the table, for “mood-lighting”. Hawke had been a bit speechless that Fenris wanted magical aesthetic, but had obliged without a fuss. Watching Isabela pursue Fenris was maddening, even though Hawke was ninety-five percent sure she was joking, and ‘mood lighting’ had been the last thing on his mind.

But Fenris had looked at him across the table with a playfulness he rarely showed, his eyes alight with something Hawke didn’t know how to interpret. He’d smirked, snapped his fingers, and sent bumblebee-sized globes of glowing buttery light up into the ceiling of the tavern as they gambled. The lights had bounced about lazily, almost romantically, as Hawke lost more silver than he cared to admit. Had it really been romantic, that moment? Or had Hawke merely thought that because of the way the light had caught Fenris’ eyes?

Growling aloud, Hawke draped himself further over the railing on the balcony, as if the more he drooped in the real world the less he would wallow in his memories.

It wasn’t a _bad_ thing, being in love. He quite liked it, in fact. It was the act of being in love with _Fenris_ while he remained _Hawke_ that bothered him.

In the past year, perhaps even further back to when he’d first arrived in Kirkwall, Hawke’s magic had been steadily growing stronger. More honed. More deadly. He attempted to direct it towards healing and support, towards helping rather than hurting. But as much as he channeled his studies into the spiritual aspect of rejuvination, he still found flame licking at his fingertips when ambushed. Ice crystalized in deadly spiked blades inside the chest cavities of those who wished to harm him. Lightning rained down from the skies when anyone threatened his friends, a mass of wails usually signaling the end of the fight as the remaining electricity crackled off across the ground. Hawke was impressive, strong, and he knew it. At the same time, he hated how good it felt to be that powerful, because it confirmed some twisted things he’d been toying with all this time.

_Are all of us the same? I’m a mage, like all the others that transformed into abominations before my very eyes. If I’m given the opportunity to make myself more powerful by any means necessary, would I take it?_

Hawke had no answer. He wanted to say no. Everything he'd done showed a vested willpower in trying to avoid all things related to blood and possession. He had destroyed Tahrone’s tomes, had put down countless demons, had tried to talk to Merrill about how uncomfortable he was with her decisions, and had done the same with Anders. The trouble was him, though. The trouble was Hawke himself. If he was calmer, perhaps smarter, maybe more mature, they might have listened to his concerns. But at the first sign of argument, Hawke withdrew and lightened the mood with a sideways grin and an inappropriate sarcastic remark. He joked. He laughed. He made stupidly obvious observations to deflect from his fear.

And he knew Fenris saw completely through it, which just made this whole thing that much more raw.

Hawke gave up on dangling his bulky torso over the railing and instead gripped it in both hands as he leaned backwards. He tried to stretch the crick in his back, and set his staff down on the ground while he bowed backwards. Closing his eyes, Hawke breathed in deeply and tried to clear his mind.

Maker, he wanted Fenris to kiss him again.

Nope, that wasn’t clear, that was worse! He shot up straight, then turned about, almost as if looking for a fight. Hawke wanted something to do besides lamenting the lack of physical intimacy, or clarity, between him and the man he was falling head over heels for.

But for the first time in a few months, Kirkwall’s streets had nothing to offer him. Damn if those nights didn’t feel like the most dangerous of all, the nights when he couldn’t resist wandering to find Fenris in his mansion. These were the nights he drew Fenris outside to look at the moon, feeling such an intense urge to comb his hand through the starlight white of the elf’s hair that Hawke’s wrists physically ached from the restraint.

Footsteps. Back towards the stairs leading further into Hightown, from beyond the market. Hawke’s mind raced, relief palpable as his heart beat out a frantic little skip of adrenaline through his veins. Good. He could patrol until his mind was clear, until he stopped imagining Fenris backing him into a wall and-

“Hawke?”

Hawke paused by the empty market stalls, in the center of the square, and strained his eyes to see further in the darkness. He could barely see, but he already recognized the voice.

“Fenris?”

“Were you expecting someone else?” Fenris asked, drawing closer into the clear moonlight of the square.

“I…” Hawke hated this. He felt a surge of immediate pleasure at the mere sight of the elf's silhouette, at the sound of his voice. He could feel his hands twitch, his heart light and effervescent in his chest, and he cursed the fact that elven eyes were better in the dark than humans’. “I wasn’t expecting anyone, to be honest.”

“It was a joke,” Fenris clarified. “I’m a bit surprised to find you here, myself.”

“Ah, it shouldn't be a surprise at this point, right? My sleeping habits have always been and will always remain deplorable. If I were a normal human being, I’d be sleeping peacefully under my covers by now,” Hawke said, walking easily over to meet Fenris by the base of the stairs. “On your way to the tavern, are you?”

“No,” Fenris said, giving a little shake of his head. “I… couldn’t sleep either. I’ve been walking for about an hour now.”

“Something on your mind?”

Hawke turned to where he had just been hanging onto the railing of the balcony, and Fenris followed him over. This light was better for him here, clear on such a cloudless night as this, and he could more easily read Fenris’ facial expression.

It was a good thing he could, too. Fenris looked distressed, but softly so. Not as if something urgent were weighing on him, moreso as if he were trying to mentally solve a puzzle without having all of the pieces.

“You could say that.”

“Want to share?” Hawke asked.

“I don’t know,” Fenris said, shrugging. Hawke wasn’t sure if he meant that he didn’t know whether or not he wanted to say anything, or that he didn’t know how to share it to begin with. Giving him a playful little nudge with his elbow as they both leaned onto the railing overlooking Lowtown, Hawke took it as the former.

“I could make you a pros and cons list, help you decide what you want from there?”

Fenris gave a little chuckle, a sound that penetrated Hawke with its sweetness.

“Go on, then.”

“Pros to sharing with me, Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall,” Hawke boasted playfully, emboldened by Fenris' attention. “I am a fantastic, top-notch, first-rate listener.”

“Really?” Fenris opened towards him, only one arm on the railing now. “You talk an awful lot for someone who’s fantastic at listening.”

“Sorry, what?” Hawke feigned, blinking wide-eyed at Fenris in what he hoped was believable ignorance. He could barely withhold his grin long enough for the joke to be effective.

To his credit, the elf looked as if he really didn’t want to laugh at that setup, but he did anyway. It wasn't much, just another small rumble of a laugh, but it was throaty and rich. It sent a frisson of happiness through Hawke's spine at the sound.

“How about cons?” Fenris asked. “Because I must say, the pros are so very convincing thus far.”

“Are we being sarcastic, my dear ser?”

“Me? Never.”

“Good, then yes, let’s think. Cons, cons, cons,” Hawke shifted his weight on his hips, and he wondered where the line blurred between enjoyment and arousal. He liked Fenris’ voice, it was pleasant to listen to, but sometimes it also caressed the pleasure center of his brain with the simplest of tones. Even now, he could feel a slippery shimmering slide of desire caressing through his spine down low into his hips. “Ugh,” he grunted. “I can’t think of any.”

“How convenient.”

“Wait I have one,” Hawke grinned broadly. “I’m distracting.”

“True. But why is that a con?”

“Because you’ll lose your train of thought while you share with me,” Hawke said, leaning forward once more. He glanced out over Lowtown, feeling surprisingly at ease. “I’ll find a way to derail your attentions elsewhere, and we won’t ever find out what’s really on your mind. I'll get you talking about ways to baste a pheasant, or perhaps your least favorite type of boot. We'll never see the end of it.”

“Mmm,” Fenris hummed. “You are becoming more and more adept at distracting me lately. I’ll concede that much.”

“If you’re talking about our last journey together, let me reassure you one more time: I just had the song stuck in my head that one day. I’m not about to take up singing as a serious hobby.”

“I wasn't, but that's good to know,” Fenris let out a desperate little breath, as if he had forgotten that incident until just now. “I’m glad it won’t be a repeat occurrence. No offense, Hawke, but I don’t know if you could carry a tune if you were given a bucket.”

“I really could not,” Hawke agreed, and readily so.

Carver had actually inherited the strongest ear for music, which had been a great irony seeing as he was the only one in the family who hadn’t wanted to learn an instrument. His little brother had sung only when pressed by Bethany, and had otherwise spent so much time begging Hawke _not_ to sing that it had been a running joke between the three siblings.

“So, is that the only downside to my sharing with you?” Fenris asked, his voice lower now. “Your proclivity to derailing my train of thought?”

Hawke let the laughter in his throat die as he felt the tone shift towards the serious. His heart fought madly within him, torn between trying to save face in the moment and reaching out towards the person he wanted most.

Damn Isabela for her talk of romance earlier tonight, and damn him for wanting to continue such a conversation now with Fenris. Even as he thought this, even as the tangible idea of _do not blurt that_ solidifed in his brain, Hawke opened his fool mouth.

“That, and you’d be in danger of getting closer to me. Just a little,” he murmured, avoiding Fenris’ gaze even as he reached out and rested his hand palm-up on the railing between them. A quiet invitation. A hint. A weak one, considering that they were beginning to touch more easily ever since their kiss, but one Hawke felt he had to make nonetheless.

“That is something to consider,” Fenris uttered, and he leaned forward on the railing so that his crossed arms rested their elbows on the stone. Hawke’s hand unheld. His invitation unaccepted.

Trying to save face, Hawke lifted his hand to cough into it, as if he had a scratch in his throat and he totally wasn’t trying to cover a disappointed grimace.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You came out here to think, and here I am. Vehemently opposed to thinking, as you well know.”

Fenris laughed again, but Hawke could tell the response was diminishing.

“I didn’t come out here to think,” Fenris corrected. “I came here to _not_ think. And yet, you’re right, here you are. My mind can’t seem to find its peace.”

Hawke’s jaw clenched involuntarily.

“I can leave.”

“What?"

"Yes. I should go."

"No, Hawke, that’s not-”

Fenris turned to him as he tried to go, his clawed gauntlet at Hawke’s forearm.

“I wasn’t joking,” Hawke said kindly, trying to extricate himself from Fenris’ grasp. If Fenris kept touching him, he wasn’t going to be able to keep his distance. He had to break free now, or he was going to push too hard, and that would be the end of it. “The true downside to me,” Hawke said firmly, “is that I can’t focus my mind on only one thing, and it seems that’s contagious-”

_Like romantic thoughts. I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to confess how I feel._

“-so that’s not good, right?” Hawke finished, breathless with the effort of holding back.

“Regardless of goodness, I am not insinuating that I wish for you to leave,” Fenris said, a bit louder this time. “That’s all.”

“But do you wish for me to stay?”

“I- it doesn’t matter,” Fenris said, looking annoyed even as he drew his gaze away from Hawke’s eyes.

The moonlight cast gentle blue shadows across his face, and Hawke shivered as a breeze blew up from the town below. Woodstoves were being lit more and more frequently this time of year, and the somewhat earthy smoke mixing with the chill on the wind was soothing, in a way. Fenris’ fingers fell from his arm, trailing along his robes as if he regretted the gesture. Hawke watched as Fenris ran his hand back through his hair, dragging it along the back of his neck and then letting it drop as if he were done with the conversation. The elf sighed into the wind, looking out over Lowtown with his face to the moon.

“It matters to me,” Hawke said.

His voice was less than steady, and he felt so foolish in that moment that a bark of a laugh threatened to well up in the back of his throat. He considered turning on his heel and walking away, retreating to his home to lick his wounds until Fenris decided he wanted to seek Hawke out of his own volition.

He didn’t get a chance. Fenris released his arm and lashed out, hitting the railing with both of his palms at once.

“How can you say these things so easily?” he asked, even as Hawke flinched at the suddenness. Fenris didn’t notice, or didn’t care. He went on, his tone strained. “I can’t tell if you’re toying with me, or if this really is as simple as you’re making it out to be!”

“I’m making things out to be simple?” Hawke asked, catcing Fenris’ shoulder in his palm to try to turn the elf towards him. It didn’t work. Fenris shrugged hard, brushing off Hawke’s hand. It annoyed him, to be ignored even as he was questioned, and emotion crept further into his voice. “Whatever gave you that impression needs to be burned, because it’s a damned lie. I’ve never been more confused about anything in my entire life!”

“You don’t seem confused,” Fenris bit out. “You are one of the most infuriatingly consistent fools I’ve ever met.”

“How so?”

“You’re here, unflinching, telling me that this conversation matters to you when I can barely-”

Fenris interrupted himself, giving a low growl as he turned back to the city overlook with clenched teeth and tigh fists.

“Okay, yes,” Hawke admitted, holding a hand to his forehead as he closed his eyes and tried to push back the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. “I admit that. Because the one thing I’m not confused about is you.”

“Wh-” Fenris’ leather creaked as he turned his torso, and he cleared his throat. “Then what are you confused about?”

Hawke opened his eyes, his heart racing, and he could feel his breathing quicken in frustration.

“You!” Hawke blurted.

Fenris laughed caustically, and Hawke had to admit that it was stupid. It sounded stupid, the circular reasoning, but it was true. Both of those things were true at once.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Fenris snapped. "It might be best to drop it like you suggested."

“No,” Hawke shook his head. “I know that what I’m saying doesn’t make sense at first glance, but I also know exactly how I feel about you. The thing that confuses me is how you feel about _me_ , Fenris. And I can be both of those things at the same time!”

The elf looked frozen, an expression of shock or anger or disbelief widening his eyes.

“Sorry,” Hawke muttered, suddenly afraid that if he pushed this hard, Fenris would leave. As if the apology had dragged him from his surprise, Fenris’ scoffed.

“Don't apologize,” Fenris’ voice was clear now, confident and cutting. “We should clarify these things for each other, should we not?”

“Fine.”

It was going to end here, or perhaps it had ended before with their kiss and Hawke had been too stupid to tell. He couldn’t tell which it would be, especially when Fenris scowled as he was right now. Hawke took in a deep breath, the urge to apologize long gone.

“I’ll go first.”

“By all means,” Fenris said. "You are already doing most of the talking anyway."

“You like me, Fenris." Hawke paused, then added on a careful, "You do, don’t you?”

Fenris’ brow twitched, and Hawke watched his throat work as he swallowed. But to his credit, Fenris gave Hawke a nod.

“There you go. That’s what kills me, because I don’t know _why_ you like me. Me. Of all people!”

"Does it not suffice that I do? Must I explain my reasoning like a diligent little student?"

Hawke scoffed by way of answering, but Fenris was already moving on.

“You don’t seem the type to need so much validation, Hawke.”

“I don’t-”

Hawke paused, his nose wrinkling as he sneered, and tried again.

“I don’t need validation, Fenris, but I need clarity. Which is why we’re talking right now, right?”

Another twitch. No nod this time, though.

“I have no idea if you think of me the way I think of you,” Hawke continued, “or if this is something weird I’ve built up in my head and you’re not enjoying this half as much as I am. Do you even think about our kiss? Because I do. I feel like a terrible friend for obsessing over it, but I can’t get it, or you, out of my head!”

Fenris was silent, and Hawke once again hung across the railing separating Hightown from the view of the rest of Kirkwall, gazing up at the moon almost in supplication with both of his arms out before him. The burst of energy he’d had that had raised his voice was now gone, and he sighed heavily.

“I keep waiting for you to kiss me again,” he groaned. “And you never do.”

Fenris shifted at his side, but Hawke closed his eyes to shut out whether he’d moved further away or not.

“I see.” Fenris’ voice was low, his tone calculated, and he gave a small sigh. “Is it too late to remedy that?”

Hawke blinked, lifting up from where he had been resting his chin on the railing. He hadn’t heard correctly. Surely he hadn’t heard correctly.

The look he shared with Fenris was charged, electric, and the hope within his chest tingled like lightning about his nailbeds. Whatever words he had were lost in a moan, helpless and futile, as Fenris pressed into him. His hand was along Hawke’s jaw in an instant, holding his head in place as his teeth found Hawke’s lips. Hawke turned as Fenris placed an arm at either side of him, he fought for control of the embrace, but with the small of Hawke’s back against the cold stone of the railing he knew he wasn’t the one holding the power.

Fenris held him in place, kissing him with a ferocity Hawke didn’t expect. It was punishing, bruised lips crushed against sharp teeth, tongues entangling, and Hawke was left gasping and trying to keep up. Maker take him, where had Fenris learned to kiss like this?

Hawke clung to him even after Fenris broke away, and when he finally opened his eyes, it took him a moment to realize that Fenris was still close.

“I have not had the chance,” the elf uttered, his voice no more than a breath against Hawke’s cheek, “to navigate something like this before. I don't know what I should suffer alone, and what I should share with you. It's... maddening.”

Hawke swallowed hard. He hadn’t considered that.

“You’re a damn fine kisser for someone who hasn’t navigated before,” Hawke muttered, the adrenaline and arousal from the kiss slurring his words. Fenris looked up at him with wry amusement.

“These things seem to come naturally to me, when I’m with you.” His eyes changed, then, a look of fleeting fear crossing over his features and eclipsing the kind expression therein. “You are my friend before all else,” Fenris said firmly, as if it were a mantra he’d repeated to himself many times before.

The statement hit Hawke hard, because it felt like an ultimatum. He nodded, though whether it was out of understanding or agreement he couldn’t say.

“No matter what happens,” Hawke whispered. “If this works, if it doesn’t work, I’m never going to _not_ be your friend, Fenris. Know that now.”

His hands found Fenris’ waist, and he leaned forward. Hawke pressed his lips to the corner of Fenris’ frown, to his chin, down to his neck, dragging hot whispers across his lyrium tattoos as the elf pressed into him. Fenris groaned in answer, and the hand that had been at Hawke’s neck moved to his shoulder. For a second, Hawke felt Fenris push him back. As if he couldn’t take this, as if Hawke’s scruff against his jaw was too much. But Hawke couldn’t hold back any longer. With a satisfied little growl, Hawke raked his teeth across Fenris’ jugular in an indulgent, sucking kiss.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” he gasped. His taloned gauntlet was at Hawke’s scalp in an instant, and Hawke knew he was about to be yanked back. But Fenris gripped his tresses tight and actively pulled him closer. “Again.”

Hawke obliged, pulling Fenris’ waist against him, his body magnetized and desperate. He licked against Fenris’ skin, laving the soft lobe of his ear, and then nipping down every inch he’d tasted with his tongue. Fenris writhed against him, the smallest of touches seemingly overwhelming to him. He let out no noises, his self-control far beyond what Hawke's was in that respect.

More than the arousal coursing through his blood, more than the delirious taste of Fenris’ skin against his tongue, Hawke couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to confess what had been on his mind moments ago.

Would Fenris melt for his sweetness as well as his bite?

“Oh.”

It was a single whispered moan to the night sky, one that Hawke almost didn’t hear as Fenris leaned backwards and exposed his neck further. His hand carded through Hawke’s hair, no longer forcing Hawke’s teeth to his neck.

Hawke stared, entranced, mouth agape, and he barely knew what to do. Here was the man who spat vindictive remarks about apostates being unstrustworthy. The man whose everyday posture was slightly hunched, protective, and closed off… he was here, before him, relaxed in the moonlight and blooming like a morning glory under his lips.

It was almost enough to distract Hawke from the glint of metal behind Fenris’ shoulder.

Hawke's reaction was instantaneous. Quick as a heartbeat, Hawke snatched the back of Fenris’ neck and pulled him forward towards the railing and against his chest, right as the first arrow volleyed forth. His right hand shot up, no time for grabbing up his staff from the ground, and as lightning sparked from his fingertips he felt Fenris flinch against him in fear.

Three men fell to the ground in spasms, leaving three to drop down from the market stall rooftops. Daggers glinted in the starlight, and Fenris shoved away from Hawke’s chest to lunge into a takedown. With a flash of blue, Fenris’ skin glowed with the ghost of his tattoos bright enough to hurt Hawke’s eyes as they adjusted. He slammed his fist into the sternum of the unlucky man who’d snuck up directly behind him, and a crunching sound signaled that Fenris had found his target.

_That hand was on my chest mere moments ago._

The thought thrilled Hawke, spurred him forward. He should have been afraid, but he wasn’t, not in the slightest. If anything, a great sense of relief washed over him, knowing how well Fenris fended for himself even without a weapon drawn. He knelt for his staff, dodging a line of liquid fire that spurted forth from the mage before him with only a hair’s breadth of leeway. He brought the end of his staff upwards from the ground, rising with it, slamming its bladed end into the soft paunch of the man who’d dared try to singe his well-maintained beard off.

Behind him, he heard the thick, wet slap of a sword catching deeply into flesh, and then the telltale gurgle of a kill. Fenris’ breathing was ragged, and he made a noise Hawke was unfamiliar with. Had he been hurt? Hawke turned despite being engaged in close combat himself, his logic overridden by the pressing need to ensure that Fenris was okay. That was when the mage he thought he’d put down grabbed for his neck with glowing fingers.

“Hawke!”

He barely had time to dip forward, but the mage’s white-hot flame still caught at his collarbone and along his shoulderblade. Bright light, its heat tremendous. As if a sun had risen in the courtyard, directly into Hawke's shoulder. He screamed despite himself, the pain acute and blinding, but he still managed to get the edge of his staff down. Then he twisted it upwards in a corkscrew motion, letting loose another cry of pain as he kicked viciously and knocked the man’s knees out from under him. The blade of his staff slammed beneath the man’s jaw, ending the spell and ending the attack, but Hawke let loose a wave of frosty energy into the man's jaw just in case.

A joke about brain-freeze came to mind, but he couldn’t form the words. The pain at his shoulder was so intense he could barely inhale, let alone say something ridiculous. Hawke fell backwards, his staff clanging to the cobblestone as it dislodged from the other mage’s skull, and he watched through a wave of dizziness as Fenris leapt towards the last and final ambusher.

It was over as soon as it began, but the pain still didn’t subside. No mere magic lesion, it felt worse, as if insects were crawling beneath his skin. Insects made of pure embers and acid and agony. His shoulder felt like it was melting off of his bones entirely, and the mental image sent a wave of nausea through Hawke’s core. One hand over the wound, his palm sticky with blood or gluey skin, Hawke could not stand to look down. He knew it was bad, he didn’t have to check it to know it was bad.

“Who were they?” he bit out past the pain, in hopes that Fenris wouldn’t fuss.

Futile. That hope was absolutely futile.

“Hand off,” Fenris ordered, taking a knee next to where Hawke was barely sitting.

He grabbed Hawke’s wrist, but he pulled it away slowly. The wound beneath let out a sickening squelch, too wet to be mere melted fat and dermis, and Hawke could feel his lungs force out the rest of his oxygen in a series of quick, rapid-fire bursts. Judging from the look on Fenris’ face, it was no worse than he’d expected, but it was still extremely bad.

"I need you to breathe, Hawke," Fenris ordered, his lip curling in righteous fury. "Breathe, damn it, breathe deeply or you're going to-"

“Who were they?” Hawke repeated as the vertigo threatening him increased in potency.

He couldn’t hear Fenris’ answer if there was one. His hand slid back to his wound, and the pressure of it shot one final burst of pain that he couldn’t handle across the center of his chest. His last thought before darkness overtook him was perverse:

_I wonder if it’s not bleeding because my blood was pooling elsewhere before the fight?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's gonna be fiiiiiiine. Don't you worry. We'll bandage him right up in the next chapter, you'll see!
> 
> ... probably!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Lord this is a long one. I apologize, but... I mean, you'll see why I feel like it's best to end on this note ;)

Hawke came to in an unfamiliar bed. Well, the sight was unfamiliar, but the smell was not, and it was what made him second-guess whether he could be dreaming. It smelled like Fenris’ skin, like that telltale spot behind Fenris’ ear that held the aroma that was decidedly _him_. Indescribable. Hawke turned to burrow deeper in the pillowcase and sharp pain ricocheted through his neck.

He felt a hand at his shoulder that forced him to relax. With difficulty, he suppressed a cry and merely let out a low, angry groan at the pain.

"Easy," a voice at his side murmured, a soft whisper that Hawke immediately relaxed for.

"Fenris," he breathed. Then louder, more confidently, "Where are we?"

“My home. You're still sore, I imagine?” Fenris asked.

Hawke opened his eyes again and noticed that Fenris was standing over him, book in hand. Hawke was over the covers of Fenris’ bed, laying on top of the duvet without his shirt on. The room was warm because of a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace a few meters away, and judging by the pillows there, it had been where Fenris had been reading. Hawke glanced down at his injury, wincing at the bandage covering the hollow between his clavicle and the muscles over his rotator cuff. It reached down over his pectoral muscles, about the size of both his palms put together. He could only nod.

“Do you remember anything from after you fainted?”

“I did not faint,” Hawke groaned, letting his head fall backwards into the pillows. “I succumbed to blackness in a rather heroic way, from all the pain I was enduring.”

“Well, the booze can’t have helped,” Fenris said with a chuckle.

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“No, I definitely couldn’t taste sweet wine on your tongue.”

Hawke blushed and brought his right hand to cover his face as he screwed his eyes shut. The other hand, his left, he couldn’t lift for fear of the pain it would bring.

“Okay, I was a bit tipsy. I admit it. I’d come from the tavern. I am a bad, bad boy.”

“I was merely teasing you,” Fenris said, more serious now. “This was not your fault, Hawke, sober or not it would have been a tough fight. It was an ambush, at a most inopportune time.”

“Are you kidding, they had wonderful timing!” Hawke chuckled darkly. “Right when I was about to do more to you, when I was at my most distracted, it was as good a time as any to try to run me through with fire.”

“You were…” Fenris lowered his voice. “You were going to do more to me?”

Hawke paused, caught in his admission, but couldn’t say anything else. He was suddenly starkly aware of how bare his chest was, of how the bandage Fenris had taped him up with cut into the sensitive skin by his nipple. Had Fenris undressed him? Hawke cleared his throat a bit too loudly.

“You said I fainted,” Hawke said, opening his eyes as he lifted his hand from covering them. “What happened after that?”

“You came to long enough to help me walk you back. But it took forever. You’re heavy, just so you know.”

“You carried me?”

“For a bit.” Fenris sighed, setting a bookmark down in the pages of his novel and then placing the book itself on the bedside table. He sat on the edge of the bed, a twitch of a grin at his lips. “It was more like dragging a sack of potatoes by my side for a moment there.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Hawke teased, wincing as he rolled an inch to face Fenris more fully, “that I should lay off the chocolate?”

“Never,” Fenris responded. “Chocolate makes you entirely too happy.”

As if he’d anticipated this line of injury-induced reasoning, Fenris passed Hawke a little plate. Broken up on it was a small chocolate bar, presented without fanfare.

“Fenris. What’s this for?”

“Because you got hurt.”

“I’m touched,” Hawke said, his voice singsong to cover the fact that he actually was rather moved. It was a sweet gesture.

“Hush. I merely recall how you hate the taste of potions. Chocolate is just something to get the taste of elfroot from your mouth.”

“I taste something else, too,” Hawke sighed. “Embrium?”

“Yes.”

“How many potions did you give me?” he demanded.

“Just the two. Embrium will help speed up the healing,” Fenris answered in confirmation.

“Blurgh.”

“Hence the chocolate.”

Fenris set the plate down on the bed by Hawke’s thigh and moved to help Hawke sit up. Hawke winced harder, every flex cutting into the wound with pinpricks of discomfort. But at least it was nothing like the pain he’d just endured, and he could already tell it was improving the more he moved it.

“Was that just a normal attack?” he asked once Fenris had thrown a pillow back against the headboard for him to sit back against. “It didn’t feel like normal fire.”

“It wasn’t,” Fenris agreed, shaking his head in disgust. “It was something different, more potent. I searched their bodies once I got you to drink down the elfroot draught I had on hand, and they were contracted mercenaries under the influence of blood magic. Tahrone’s leftovers, I assume.”

“Or her successors,” Hawke muttered, and he grabbed up some chocolate to try to chase the sweet orchid flavor from his mouth. “You know,” he said lightly, “we should report this to Aveline.”

“No. We’ll find them on our own come daylight. Once you’ve got your strength back.”

Fenris turned back to his book. He reached out a hand, poised above its spine to grab it, but then stopped and froze. Hawke was about to ask what was wrong when Fenris clenched his hand into a fist and spun around to face him.

“I’m worried about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” he frowned deeper. “I’ve never seen you faint from an injury like that. And I’ve seen you get thrown by a high dragon.”

“To be perfectly frank, I’m not very at ease knowing that such an attack laid me out on my arse like it did, either.” Hawke took two more piece of chocolate, holding them out to Fenris as if they were to illustrate his point as he spoke. “I’ve never experienced something so debilitating before. Makes you wonder what my training is for, if I can’t even ward off an attack based in blood magic at such close quarters. Makes me wonder if it’s all for nothing.”

Fenris’ brow twitched.

"You are powerful without resorting to such nonense," Fenris said coldly. "Do not entertain for one moment that you are not."

"But-"

“Your training should’ve reminded you not to check on me, however,” Fenris stated, his voice taking on a tone of angered impassivity. Like the elf couldn’t decide between reprimanding Hawke or thanking him. “You should have focused on your own fight. You know better.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were safe,” Hawke said, but even he heard how lame it sounded to his own ears. Instead of letting himself speak more, instead of backing himself into an even smaller verbal corner, Hawke stuffed more chocolate into his mouth.

“I suppose… I can understand that,” Fenris murmured, and with that he turned back to his book. He picked it up, but did not open it, merely laid it onto his lap with his fingers playing at the cord of the bookmark inside.

His arms were bare, as were his fingertips. He still wore his armor, but just as he had done for the food when he’d cooked, Fenris had apparently rid himself of the material that came between his fingers and Hawke’s flesh as he bandaged him. Hawke swallowed, then set the plate far from him on the other side of the bed, the other half of the chocolate bar untouched.

“What are you reading?” Hawke asked. With a barely-sustained grunt, he rolled to his side and leaned over Fenris’ shoulder.

“What? This?"

Hawke narrowed his eyes at Fenris' tone.

"This is a frivolous tale,” Fenris spat, holding the book aloft. “But the words are simple and the sentence structure repetitive. I can read it without difficulty, for the most part.”

Its cover was a plain brown leather, embossed with filligree and flowers and devoid of a title. It was thick, and Fenris was halfway through. For his complaints about it, he seemed to be devouring it. Hawke wanted so badly to rest his chin on Fenris’ shoulder, but the elf was still wearing his spiked armor. He settled for nuzzling at Fenris’ ear instead.

The elf twitched, his ear flicking out from beneath Hawke’s beard before he had a chance to kiss it. Fenris turned with an expression of annoyance masking the amusement in his eyes. If Hawke didn’t know him as he did, he would’ve thought Fenris was upset.

He knew, though, that Fenris was not annoyed. The way his mouth remained relaxed, the way his brow was set but not quirked, and the gentle rolling of his shoulders were all fine indicators that Fenris was, in fact, rather comfortable.

“You’re injured. Sit back and rest,” the elf ordered, and he placed a hand on the center of Hawke’s bare chest to give him a push into the pillows.

As he pushed, Hawke flexed against the force, staying aloft with difficulty. Fenris stopped pressing as his brow furrowed, clearly not having expected Hawke to disobey such a strongly-worded request, but his hand did not fall away from Hawke’s sternum. As if to illustrate that, as if to appreciate it, Hawke brought up his injured arm and covered Fenris’ hand with his own.

The elf glanced away immediately. It was such an instinctive thing for him to touch like this, to reach for Fenris, that Hawke wondered suddenly if he was being too forward. Too intimidating.

“What’s the title of the book?” Hawke asked, intent on giving Fenris something to distract himself with.

Instead, the elf’s eyes widened slightly and a faint red crept up along his ears. Still, he would not meet Hawke's gaze.

“To… _To Woo A Cold-Hearted Duke_.”

Hawke paused, not understanding the title at first. Was it a self-help book, or maybe an anthology of historical romances? No, Fenris had said simple and repetitive. And he seemed rather embarrassed, clutching at the book’s spine with the hand not in contact with Hawke’s bare skin, his gaze decidedly on the bedpost rather than Hawke’s face. The hand at his chest flexed, as if Fenris was trying very hard not to move, not to give anything away. The blush had crept higher on his cheeks, a sign that-

“Andraste’s sweet arse, you’re reading a filthy romance novel, aren’t you!”

“Don’t say it like that!” Fenris growled.

“Who gave that to you?” Hawke demanded, laughing as he reached for the book with his injured hand. Fenris jerked it away, an almost protective gesture, so that it was just out of Hawke’s reach.

“Nobody.”

“It’s not from Isabela’s collection?”

“I have never seen her even holding a book before, what are you talking about?”

“It’s not a prank from Varric?”

“No!”

“So you found it on your own, then?” Hawke asked, and as he playfully reached for the book a second time, his other hand twined his fingers through Fenris’. “Oh, it must be decidedly wicked for you to want to keep me from reading.”

“It is merely-” Fenris’ voice was raised, he realized after a beat, and so Hawke watched with a mad grin on his lips as the elf cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s simple, as I said. The language isn’t as flowery as I expected, and it paints a clear picture.”

“All the best erotica does,” Hawke teased.

Fenris blushed harder.

“I wouldn’t know.”

A heartbeat of silence, where the full meaning sunk in, and Fenris continued.

“I thought it best to… study. Such things. Of my own volition.” His fingers twitched beneath Hawke’s, nervousness coloring his whole demeanor. When he spoke again, his words threatened to break Hawke’s heart. “Seeing as I lacked the opportunity to explore… such things for myself, I wanted to know what it would be like. To engage in such things with someone else.”

Hawke stopped playing, then. Fenris was repeating himself. He was hesitating, and he never did that. His words were few and firm, and he did not second guess himself in the saying of them. Not unless he’d been thrown off his game, usually by Hawke's unknowing playfulness.

The hand that had been reaching for the outstretched book fell to Fenris’ lap, the other tightening about his knuckles. Without thinking, Hawke brought Fenris’ hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Fenris finally made eye contact with him again, his brow knit together in consternation.

“Such things, you say,” Hawke repeated.

Fenris nodded once, his jaw clenched like he wanted to keep from speaking further.

“Do you mean things like what we’ve done together?” Hawke probed gently, hesitantly. “Like kissing?”

Fenris was silent. But he made a noise in the back of his throat, one Hawke took for confirmation.

“I see. Well… did you like what you read?” Hawke asked, his voice rough.

As he waited for an answer, he took Fenris’ hand and pressed it back to his chest. He hoped the elf could feel how hard his heart was pounding, hoped how nervous he was too would translate through their skin. Maker, his breathing was quickening, every second Fenris stared at him with that combination of wrath and desire heightening his anticipation and intensifying his lust.

Fenris took a deep breath, then another. On the third, he finally spoke, his voice low and unhurried, but Hawke could still hear the tremor that threaded through the elf’s words.

“I have one or two favorite passages within this book. Yes.”

“Will you tell me about them?” Hawke asked. Begged, really. Fenris’ eyes narrowed, almost like he was trying to see if Hawke was toying with him. When Hawke didn’t waver, Fenris swallowed and nodded.

“Shall I read them to you directly?” he asked, adopting an expression of impassivity even as his brown skin grew darker with his embarrassment. Perhaps Hawke was reading it wrong, though. Maybe it was heat from want, not from shame. He nodded, releasing Fenris’ hand so that he could open the book to a well worn, dog-eared page in the back. Beyond where his bookmark was.

So he had read this book at least once before.

“Can you?”

“Yes,” Fenris stated plainly. “Some of the names give me trouble, but I just skip over them.”

“I think that’s what everyone does,” Hawke said, pride suffusing his tone even though his efforts had been minimal compared to Fenris’. Still, the elf smiled, as if he were pleased.

“Are you sure you’re up for this right now?” Fenris checked, motioning with the book’s spine to Hawke’s bandaged shoulder. “We still don’t know what caused you to black out like you did.”

“True. But I’m safe with you, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Fenris replied immediately, no reluctance whatsoever in the response.

“Then I’m up for it,” Hawke said firmly. “We can worry about everything else in a few hours, once day breaks. Right now, I want to hear you read to me.”

“If you insist,” Fenris grumbled, but Hawke flattered himself that the elf looked relieved as he opened the leatherbound hardback with a sigh. “Are you comfortable?”

“Very,” Hawke said, and the hand he’d lain on Fenris’ lap turned over so that his palm could graze the elf’s thigh. “Are you?”

“No,” Fenris replied, but it didn’t sound like a bad thing. The elf turned to Hawke and searched his expression. “But it doesn’t feel bad, if that’s what you mean.”

“Good,” Hawke murmured. In that moment, he was unsure what he meant, what he was doing, where this was going. But he was certain about how much he wanted Fenris, drawn to him almost magnetically even at a time like this. His hand gripped a touch harder, and he reveled in the feeling of Fenris’ thigh flexing beneath his fingers. He watched, charmed, as Fenris clenched his teeth and drew in a steadying breath. His ears gave another twitch, and then he began to read as if it would give him some repreive from Hawke’s touch.

“ _The bed was soft and warm. It was an escape from the sharp edges of the world. When he laid her down onto it, she wondered if he might have told the truth. Maybe he never meant to hurt her, and she had been a fool too scared to love him back._ ”

Hawke frowned, touched both by the passage and by the way Fenris meticulously followed the line with his index finger as he read- even though he obviously didn’t need to. He spoke the words as if he had spoken them aloud to himself before, in the quiet of his own mansion, to nobody in particular. His voice was soft, but held steely confidence.

It was at once endearing and intimidating, just how sharp this man was.

“ _He kissed her with white-hot passion that he could barely control. His hands explored beneath her skirts. They traveled along the length of her thighs. Higher. Higher still. He inched his way beneath her clothes as his mouth caught on the skin of her bare ankle._ ”

Hawke had to swallow. It was a bit much to take in; not only the fact that Fenris was lowering his voice and moving closer to Hawke’s lap on the bed, but the fact that he was also reading so clearly.

Aloud.

To Hawke, of all people.

Sure, he stumbled on a few words here and there, and would hold the book out to Hawke to have him pronounce things like 'opalescent' and 'rhythmic'. The words Fenris stumbled upon were usually words that held letter combinations they had barely practiced, but even then Fenris truly did not need the support. Given a brief second of puzzlement, he knew the words without Hawke’s help.

“ _She never knew the taste of another’s tongue could be so intimate and delicate. It had seemed a crude act before him. Just as making love to a duke had seemed a fantasy un… unattainable before him. But then again, was that not what made fantasies so rich to begin with? Their mystery? Their impossibility?”_

The scene he’d chosen to read was a touch tawdry, but not the most lascivious Hawke had ever heard. It wasn’t written all that well, but it wasn’t terrible. He could see why Fenris enjoyed the reading of it, for certain; it contained short sentences, punctuated by longer words, and they felt like punches when read out loud. They felt good on the tongue. On top of that, the subject matter was romantic without being saccharine. It made sense that Fenris was drawn to it.

Hawke had the absurd inkling, rather abruptly, that Fenris was confused too. Just as Hawke had obsessed over romance, relationships, and his own feelings, it seemed as if Fenris was figuring himself out in his own way at the same time. The thought left him light, as if he were made of bubbles, and hopeful beyond what felt safe to hope for.

“ _She had never taken a lover before him, and she knew she never would after. He was difficult to describe, especially when he shed his clothes, but she wanted him all the same. He was steel and satin. He was desire and fear. She could barely breathe as his fingers found her breast through her..."_

_"Bodice,_ ” Hawke supplied when Fenris held the book out to him.

The man, presumably the duke from the title, was bedding the lovely young noblewoman after a battle… or so it was alluded. The prose barely came outright and said what had happened beforehand. It was mostly yearning and heated skin, which Hawke normally wasn’t a fan of. However, sitting across from his favorite person and wishing he could work up the nerve to kiss him once more, Hawke had to admit that was just about the gist of being in love. If it could be summarized to begin with, anyway.

Fenris blushed once more only when it came to describing the duke himself, when he had to speak of hard planes of muscles, and then the way his grip held the noblewoman’s legs aloft when he prepared to enter her. He cleared his throat after glancing up to gauge Hawke’s response, and Hawke wondered what his expression must have held for the elf to immediately look away once more.

When Fenris uttered the word ‘sex’ for the first time, Hawke felt his body respond. Fenris’ deep voice forming the word in his throat, it seemed so much more lewd and spectacular than Hawke had imagined it would have. Hawke shifted on the bed, favoring his injured shoulder, and tried to get more comfortable while trying not to draw too much attention to his growing erection.

How long had he been hard like this? And at a simple metaphorical passage in a third-rate romance novel? Not even a description of the act itself, a mere mention of the word ‘sex’ was all it took for him to become starkly aware of his own heartbeat and the warmth emanating from the man beside him. His cock twitched against the tent of his trousers, not insistent enough yet to be too obvious, but hard enough to be painful the way it was folded. He considered adjusting. Would it be too obvious if he adjusted? If only Fenris had put him underneath of the blankets-

“It continues on from there in that manner,” Fenris said dryly, closing the book as gently as he could, as if the people within its narrative were real and would be crushed if he slammed it shut. “It goes on for about ten more pages. But I’m sure you get the idea.”

“Why did you stop?” Hawke asked, frowning.

The duke had been poised at her entrance and was about to thrust into her when Fenris had just shut the tome. The woman, the one narrating, had been panting for breath. The innerworkings of her mind had revealed just how big the duke was, just how much she craved the way he filled her. But then Fenris had just … stopped.

“I assume you can imagine how it progresses.”

“You don’t like the progression?” Hawke asked. If he was being honest, he felt a bit breathless himself. In the scenario Fenris had painted, Hawke didn’t know who he felt more drawn to: the protagonist, undone at the hands of the cold, unfeeling man turned gracious and loving, or the hero, guiding an inexperienced lover into their own pleasure.

Hawke startled when Fenris spoke up, a little flinch he played off as best he could.

“I do,” Fenris said. He glanced up at Hawke as if he didn’t understand his point. “But you asked me to read one or two passages I was fond of, and I did.”

“You read half of one,” Hawke protested. “It was just getting good.”

“Getting good? Was it not good before that?”

“He was about to… do more, was he not?”

“Tch.” A little sucking sound between his teeth, a show of disapproval. “So you think you know what happens next, do you?” Fenris asked, his eyes narrowed.

“I mean, I can only imagine, as you said before,” Hawke said with a smile, leaning forward. “But yes. I think I know, and I think I want to hear you tell me about it.”

“I have done more than enough talking for now,” Fenris evaded. But then, as if he could not help himself, he added, “Feel free to explain yourself, however. I’ll correct you if you’re wrong.”

His hand on Fenris’ thigh strayed upwards, towards the groove of muscle that joined at his hip, towards sensitive skin on his inner thigh. His leggings were light, made for ease of movement and stealthy lunges. Hawke wondered if his touch was too rough, even with fabric separating them, and made an effort to gentle his fingers as they strayed.

“I imagine that, next, he guides himself into her gently. So gently, in fact, that she can’t stand it.”

“Mmm.”

Fenris sounded as if he’d swallowed a moan. Eyes issuing a challenge, Fenris tipped his chin upwards and leaned into Hawke’s touch.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Fairly sure,” Hawke said with a grin.

“Right. And then?”

“Most romance novel protagonists are inexperienced,” Hawke said. “She might need help finding her own pleasure at first. The hero would most likely touch along sensitive areas before taking her. Like kissing along her ankles, as he did in the story.” Hawke grinned wickedly. "How sensitive are your ankles, by the way, Fenris?"

The elf seemed to ignore him with the mental fortitude of a saint.

“Do most people not take their own pleasure when they’re alone?”

“Some people don’t have the…” Hawke glanced down at Fenris’ lips pointedly, then back to his eyes once more, promise written therein. “ _Opportunity_ to explore such things for themselves,” he finished softly.

Fenris bit his lower lip, drawing it in between his teeth. He sid nothing, his eyes bright with what Hawke assumed was desire or perhaps defiance, and so Hawke went on.

“After he penetrates her, after she’s used to the size of him,” he reached out with his other hand and began to undo the buckles of Fenris’ armor at his ribs. Fenris said nothing, did not move to help, but Hawke could hear his breathing quicken. “He’ll start to move. Slowly at first, so that he doesn’t hurt her.”

“Is it always a man and a woman in such scenarios?” Fenris demanded.

“I- no, not always,” Hawke stammered, a bit taken aback.

“I see. Does this mean that there are novels with two men in the same position as this?” Fenris asked softly, his voice wavering even as he strove to seemingly ask it without worry. Hawke paused, having to swallow down the excitement that bubbled forth within him.

“I would assume. It has been a while since I’ve found one to my taste, but yes. They follow the same formula,” Hawke said. “Most romance novels, anyway.”

“Then continue,” Fenris bit out. “But… describe a book like that to me instead. For research purposes, of course.”

“I, ah,” Hawke’s hands fumbled at his buckles, and Fenris reached down. His fingers against Hawke’s, together they unhooked and pulled leather straps free from their binding. It reminded Hawke of what he was doing and where he was. At least, physically, anyway; he’d lost his train of thought otherwise. “Where was I in the telling? I seem to have gotten a bit distracted.”

“The illustrious Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, and top-notch, all-around excellent listener has been distracted? How unexpected," Fenris said, his words sharp but not painfully so.

"I can start singing if you don't remember," Hawke threatened, and he tried to ignore the way his first name sounded on Fenris' lips. The elf gave a rich, throaty chuckle.

"No need. You were saying that the inexperienced protagonist gets used to the size of him,” Fenris said. "That is where you stopped."

Hawke did not miss that he deliberately left out the word _she_. Did Fenris do the same when reading such things? Did he imagine a different pronoun, an insert to better fit his fantasy? Hawke swallowed hard against the odd sense of pride swelling in his chest at the thought.

As if he affected Fenris’ fantasies in any way.

“Right. Well. When he gets used to the size of him, usually the man will move, like I was saying. Slow strokes, nothing too fast or too painful,” Hawke explained. “There’s something beautiful in delayed pleasure, in drawing it out for a long time.”

“Is there?” Fenris asked, even as he helped Hawke unbuckle the last clasp on that side. He turned, offering Hawke his other ribs to undress in the same fashion. At first, Hawke thought he was being sarcastic with his question, but Fenris looked up at him with such wide eyes that Hawke knew he was honestly asking.

“Yes,” Hawke whispered.

He was so hard now that it hurt, an ache that sent pulses of pleasure through his hips and limbs with every heartbeat. Looking at Fenris in the firelight, seeking reassurance or something more, Hawke was lost.

Fenris was tense. His forearms were tight, his knuckles clenching even as he slowly and unhurriedly unclipped and slid leather from around his form. Hawke couldn’t tell if he was afraid, or perhaps annoyed, or maybe even full of longing like himself. But he was not pushing Hawke away, and that at least counted for something.

Maybe it was everything. It certainly felt like that, in the moment.

“What then?” Fenris asked, and Hawke pushed his limits.

Reaching out, he traced an index and middle finger down the line of sensitive flesh that was being steadily revealed the more they unbuckled the warrior before him, past Fenris’ ribs and down to his waist. Fenris gave a shudder, even though there was still a loose scrap of cloth separating his skin from Hawke’s prying grasp. His eyes fluttered shut, and Hawke’s immediately worry was that he had hurt. The lyrium in Fenris’ skin, Hawke had no idea what that must feel like. Did touching hurt?

He watched, amazed, as Fenris traced a line down his own body that Hawke had drawn. His own fingers trailed paths Hawke had made, as if trying to recreate the sensation of them a second time. His eyes blinked open only when Hawke remained silent for a beat too long, as if Fenris was about to remind him to continue the story. To continue painting him a picture of what the romance novel entailed.

“Th-then,” Hawke continued, realizing suddenly that his breathing was shallow and excited. He tried to take in a deep breath, to regain control of himself, but being in Fenris’ bed surrounded by his smell only made it worse. He bit back a groan. “Then, as the hero keeps an even rhythm within our protagonist, he will most likely use his hands to… help things along,” he finished lamely, growing slightly embarrassed himself.

His immediate thought, the one he wished he was bold enough to say, was that the hero would reach down and grip the man’s shaft in his hand. He would trail his knuckles over every curve, memorizing the indent of every vein and muscle there, until the inexperienced character was mewling and begging for release. Then the hero would move inside of him, amplify every sensation from within, and they would finish together in a shattering mutual orgasm.

But one thing that plagued him was who to place where. Was that Hawke, in his mind’s eye, being tortured with feather-light strokes? Or was it Fenris?

It wasn’t such an easy answer. Hawke’s fantasies never really included plot: they were dark shadowed thoughts that barely followed a linear pattern beyond flashes of physical attentiveness and raw indulgence. But they were usually a certain person, whoever he was interested in at the moment.

How often had he touched himself to the thought of Fenris, especially lately? How many times had he arched back into the pillows, his grip punishing and desperate about the shaft of his cock, until he’d painted the headboard with evidence of his desire for the elf?

Too often to count. Double that since their kiss. Always in secret, always quick, always before he could turn over and go to sleep.

The sudden thought appeared:

_Does Fenris do that too?_

“Help things along, eh?” Fenris asked, his voice low and careful.

With a clink, the last of the small buckles was undone, and he began to shrug out of his armor. Hawke helped; how could he not? Reaching out, ignoring the fading pain in his shoulder, he slid his hands beneath the spikes Fenris wore and helped him lift it over and off of his torso. Hawke let his hands trail along his abdomen, shifting the web-thin fabric over the muscles of his slight frame. For a brief second, Hawke felt a twinge of discomfort.

He was bigger than Fenris in many ways, and experienced in many more. Hawke had had lovers, both men and women, back in Lothering. He’d had chances as he grew up to figure out what he liked and didn’t like, free from shame or repression. He’d even had a visit or two to the Rose while in Kirkwall.

But since meeting Fenris, he was… out of practice. He’d not wanted anyone else since meeting the elf, even though that was entirely unconscious. But Fenris had admitted he had no experience in such things, so it begged the question: would Hawke be expected to know what to do in this situation? How could he illicit pleasure from a man who might not know how to take it for himself?

“Hawke?”

“Mmm?”

“Does the scene stop there?” Fenris asked. A loaded question, one Hawke sensed the elf felt as well, because Fenris cleared his throat to clarify. “When he helps the main character along?”

“Well, ah… most of the time, it just depends.”

Hawke leaned forward, and he could tell that for a moment his indecision had lessened his arousal. He shifted on the bed, moving his hands from Fenris so that he could sit back against the pillows with a deep sigh. His shoulder wound released some of the ache it had been holding tightly wound about itself, and Hawke could practically feel it knitting back together beneath his skin.

“Depends on what?”

“On how long it takes for the protagonist to finish.”

“How long does it take you?” Fenris asked.

Hawke blinked rapidly, shocked at the turn this conversation was taking. Was Fenris imagining Hawke as the inexperienced one, laid out before him, flexible hips rolling to spread his legs? Not to be outdone for boldness, he answered as best he could.

“Again, it depends.” He paused, lowering his voice. “If I’m not thinking of anything, I can usually last a while. But if I think of something in particular, it could ruin me in only a few strokes.”

Fenris’ gaze darkened, and he looked up at Hawke, defiant through his lashes.

“What, in particular, ruins you, Hawke?”

_Maker take me._

“You really want to know?” he asked, knowing with finality that this would cast them off of a ledge that would not be easy to climb back up onto once they’d jumped.

Fenris blinked, then nodded.

“Thoughts of you,” Hawke said softly, a breath that barely carried across to where Fenris was sitting.

Hawke’s heart pounded with the admission, something he couldn’t take back. He felt crude, yet sensual. Shameful, yet desired. The way Fenris was looking at him, pupils wide with unslaked lust and hands gripped into fists, Hawke was reminded of something predatory held in check. It excited him, incensed him, and he felt no regret. He’d told the truth, and it was all he could do.

“You think of me when you’re alone?” the elf asked, tilting his head to one side so that only his right eye was showing beneath a swathe of pale hair.

His gaze was heavy-lidded, almost lazy, and it would have been adorable were it not for the intense way his brow curved downward and his lips stayed held in a thin line. He was scrutinizing. Analyzing. Otherwise, Hawke might have thought he was joking, because it seemed such an obvious answer.

Of course Hawke thought of him when he was alone. Fenris _had_ to know that, no question. But that expression, it stated very clearly that this was serious. Hawke knew better than to tease Fenris at a time like this, during such a pivotal confession. Hawke clenched his jaw once, then nodded.

“I do.”

“How often?”

Hawke felt the muscles of his jaw tighten a second time.

“Often enough.”

“Hawke-”

“Okay fine, Maker,” he growled. “You’re more persistent than a Sister getting me to confess.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“Sometimes it’s not often. Once a week? Twice a week?” Hawke paused, swallowed hard, then shook his head. “After you sucked the jam from my thumb, it was every day for almost a month.”

“You aren’t serious.”

“I am.”

“But that only happened a month ago.”

“So it did,” Hawke replied, biting at his lower lip to try to keep from uttering more.

“You’re telling me it’s been every day since then?”

“Just about.”

“Huh. You sound insatiable,” Fenris muttered, and Hawke couldn’t tell if it was a statement made out of excitement or intimidation.

“I just…” Hawke paused, trying to strike a balance between kindness and the depraved way he wanted the man across from him. Finding that he couldn’t, he gave a low laugh. “I want you so much, and I don’t know what to do with myself because of it,” he settled on saying, as hopeless and stupid and simple as it sounded.

“You want me?”

“Yes,” Hawke laughed.

“Why?”

The question hit hard. For a moment, Hawke didn’t have an answer, because there was too much he could say. He leaned forward away from the pillows, his voie catching in his throat.

“You’re incredible, Fenris,” he stated. “You’re clever, and you’re brave, and you're so handsome it hurts."

The elf scoffed, clearly not believing a word of it.

"It's true!" Hawke protested. "Remember when Isabela wouldn't lay off of how good you would look oiled up?"

"Ugh," Fenris pursed his lips. "I do."

"It's not just me that thinks you're irresistible. Watching you stretching after a fight absolutely ends me. Seeing how you carry that maul with ease, strapped across your back like it weighs nothing..." Hawke paused. "Actually now I'm a bit offended at how you compared me to potatoes, Fenris. You can easily lift potatoes."

Fenris laughed out loud, his expression breaking from its intensity for one brief moment. Hawke found himself automatically mirroring the expression.

"And this... Oh you have to realize it by now."

"What?" Fenris asked with a sigh, seeming a bit more comfortable at least.

"That I love how you make me feel when I’m around you.”

“How do I make you feel?”

Hawke shook his head in disbelief, and he had to avert his eyes while he considered how to phrase it. It wasn’t something he’d thought about in so many words, but it felt so right to divulge it now that he couldn’t help himself.

“Like I’m someone worth listening to,” Hawke whispered. “Like I’m more than the magic I contain, more than just a mage. Around you, it feels like I’m… me.”

It was Fenris’ turn to pause, his expression looking like he didn’t know how to counter such raw honesty. He settled on neutrality, as if that was hard enough to do.

“How do you say such things aloud, Hawke?” Fenris asked, his voice small. For a moment, there was nothing else in the room besides that question and the gentle crackle of the fireplace. But then Fenris gave a shaky sigh and whispered, “How do you let yourself be so vulnerable, even without promise of anything in return?”

Hawke gave a little laugh, feeling very much so.

“I don’t do this with everyone.”

“Then, I'll ask you once again,” Fenris scoffed, “how is it that you can with _me_?”

“Because. When I’m with you…”

Hawke reached out to touch Fenris’ thigh. He waited until the elf’s eyes raised to meet his, cautious and caring, and then Hawke gave him the most earnest look he could muster. No jokes. No sarcasm. No cutting wit. Without all of that, he told Fenris the truth.

“With you, it's just easy, sweetheart.”

A small breath escaped the elf, as if Hawke’s words had dealt him a physical blow to the chest. Fenris leaned forward, a broken expression reaching his eyes as his lips parted, and Hawke closed his eyes in anticipation of a kiss.

But it didn’t come. Instead, there was a mere whisper against his lips, one that sent electric energy alight in his bones.

“Show me what to do from here,” Fenris whispered, his voice dark and coated with curiosity. “Please.”

Hawke’s eyes flashed open. He inhaled sharply, and for a moment he wasn’t sure what that plea even meant. Was it a request for physical affection? Should he ask why now? Should he wait? Should he lean up and kiss Fenris so that they could do this together?

But Fenris was moving away, backing himself against the bedpost by Hawke’s feet. He leaned back onto it and Hawke watched as he shifted into a more comfortable position. Fenris wore simple breeches beneath the armor Hawke had helped him shed, skintight and dark, and even from his position at the head of the bed Hawke could see just how aroused Fenris was. His erection strained at the apex of this thighs, pressing the fabric upwards with some subtlety, as if Fenris had readjusted himself upwards to lessen the discomfort of it. Seeing that was enough to redouble Hawke’s passion, to make him purr appreciation in the back of his throat.

Fenris sat facing Hawke, one leg dangling over the edge of the bed while he brought the other leg up onto the mattress. He rested his elbow languidly on the knee he raised, offering Hawke a fine view in the candlelight of his every muscular curve. The sleeveless tunic hanging from his body revealed just how much the tattoos covered him, just how far down they went.

There was a moment of heart-wrenching clarity, where Hawke was made starkly aware of how little of Fenris’ body had been left unclaimed by an unwanted touch, and he almost rushed to gather the elf protectively to his chest.

But then Fenris smiled at him in the firelight, and Hawke saw the enjoyment there. The pleasure. The canine glinting sharp in the glow of the flame, and the ease with which he watched him. Leaning his head back against the bedpost as well, Fenris brought his right hand up to his own thigh.

Hawke knew Fenris was watching his eyes, but he couldn’t look away from the elf’s legs. He watched as Fenris trailed his fingers up from his own thigh to the curve of his hip, then further still along his abdomen, lifting his shirt to trail his palm over the planes of his stomach. Hawke watched hungrily, partially out of pure admiration for Fenris’ body. But also, because he wanted to see the way Fenris’ body flinched when he finally and truly touched himself, when he brought his palm into contact with the cock he could see flexing against the thin breeches.

Fenris’ fingers came close, passing wraithlike over the fabric that held his erection pinned fast to his belly. Hawke could see the answering, reflexively twitch from Fenris’ cock, the automatic response from being so close to physical contact. Hawke felt his own shaft mirror the gesture against his own trousers, a plea for touch, any kind of touch.

“Show me how I ruin you when you’re alone,” Fenris said again, quieter this time, more of an invitation than an order.

At times, when they were climbing a rather high ridge on Sundermount, Hawke wondered what it would be like to jump. Not because he did not want to live, but because there was a strange pull to just… jump. To free-fall. To experience exhileration of that magnitude.

He knew he wouldn’t land comfortably, that he would be maimed at best from bouncing down the side of a mountain, but the urge to fling himself from someplace high was always present. It was why he hung off of balconies without fear, or climbed ladders single-handed, or raced across rooftops when the opportunity presented. Because he knew, if he had to leap, the sensation of falling would be a fleeting and ethereal rush. And then he would catch himself, as he always did, and be firmly on solid ground.

Here, in Fenris’ bedroom, his dick hardening and his unlikely best friend sitting across from him, his shoulder aching and his heart greedily starved for any affection Fenris could give him, Hawke jumped.

The sensation of falling was all around him as he held eye contact with the warrior at the end of the bed. He used one hand to deftly undo the laces at the top of his trousers, mentally thanking the Maker that he hadn’t double-knotted them. Without provocation, without him having to loosen the lacing hardly at all, his pants began to fall away from his body. Hawke’s member was straining against the fabric, insistent and ready, and without further ceremony he freed it from his smallclothes with both hands.

Fenris, to his credit, tried to maintain eye contact for a brief moment. Then, as if he remembered that he had asked for this, Fenris allowed his eyes to trail down Hawke’s bare chest, past the bandage covering his collarbone, down past the trail of dark hair leading to Hawke’s belly, lower still to the girth Hawke was holding loosely in one fist. Fenris was blushing even before he got to Hawke’s cock. As soon as he saw Fenris’ eyes widen, almost too slight to catch, Hawke smirked despite himself.

He wondered if Fenris knew that he was just as intimidating. Beyond all else, Hawke wanted to crumble for the elf. He wanted to break himself down while he watched, to show Fenris that this was what he liked, that he was exactly what Hawke wanted, and that it was only easy because it was _him_. But he had to take it slow. Just as he had described in what he assumed was the lovemaking scene in Fenris’ book, Hawke had to pace himself lest he hurt them both.

With a deep breath, Hawke left his hand loose about his shaft, but he began to trail up and down its length. He gripped and tilted it at its base as he relaxed into the pillows, a bit of a show for Fenris to see how hard he was and how the curve of his was slight and sloping. Hawke liked the shape of himself, if he were being honest. He was thick without being monstrous, not frightening to behold but not disappointing either. He felt very confident in demonstrating that now.

Doubly so when Fenris ran a palm over his own lap and gave a hum of encouragement.

“Very nice.”

“You know me,” Hawke smirked, unable to help himself. “I aim to please.”

It felt a bit strange, beginning this with distance between them. But it was what Fenris wanted, and Hawke wanted Fenris. No matter how far he sat away from him, no matter how he did or didn’t want to be touched, Hawke wanted to be there.

The thought alone sent a shudder through him, a tremor that had him arching slightly into his own palm.

“Already?” Fenris asked, and Hawke could tell he was teasing only by the rough vibrancy of his tone. “I thought you had more willpower than that, Hawke.”

“I’m not finished yet,” Hawke sighed. “But you do have a bit of an… effect on me.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Fenris pointed out, holding up his hands as if he were the picture of innocence.

If only those hands were working on him now. So close, yet so far. Hawke had to stop his stroking, his hand moving to the base of his shaft so that he wouldn’t accidentally brush against the sensitive bundle of nerves at its head until the height of the urge to come had passed. Alone at night, at this point, he would quicken his pace and focus on the tip, instantly pulling himself into orgasm-induced slumber.

But now, for Fenris, he needed to keep it slow.

Bringing his hand to his mouth, he licked at his palm. He could taste salt, a gentle musk that came with all pheromone-prone parts of the body, and a vague bitterness from the soap he’d used that morning. He coated his palm with his own saliva, avoiding Fenris’ eye as he lost himself in the fantasy.

In Hawke’s mind, Fenris was not merely watching him. He was taking his own member in his hands, the mere sight of Hawke taking his pleasure enough to drive him to madness. Hawke fueled his own lust by imagining Fenris inflamed with desire, by imagining that Fenris’ tongue was once again at his fingertips.

More than the sensation of it against his skin, Hawke wondered what it would be like to hear his name on Fenris’ tongue as he crept towards his climax. Not his nickname, not Hawke. Garrett. Whispered like a secret as Fenris thrust up into his own fist, as he came to find his own ruination in spectacular pleasure.

Once it was slick enough, Hawke lowered his palm to his cock once more. Taking his shaft back into his palm, the gliding sensation was almost enough to send him careening up to a climax. Withholding, Hawke kept his strokes slow and steady. He couldn’t keep in the groans, however, that escaped his chest in long, drawn-out breaths. He tried to soften them, tried to hold them back behind gritted teeth, embarrassed by the echoes from the large and relatively empty bedroom.

As he wound himself tighter, Hawke began to twist his hand ever so slightly with every pull. A slight rotating motion, it prolonged each stroke in immeasurable sweetness The scrape of his knuckles, loose enough to be comfortable but tight enough to provide resistance, was almost too pleasurable to bear stoically any longer. Hawke threw his head back and closed his eyes, much as he wanted to watch Fenris’ reaction. He lost himself to the show.

His other hand began to work himself as well. Hawke pulled his trousers lower still, pulling the fabric down about his hips so that he could fondle the base of his shaft and his balls as he arched upwards into his own hands. His hips were moving of their own volition, slow at first. So slow, in large circles, as if he were fighting himself. He had to position his feet wider on the bed to accomodate and to give himself enough leverage.

Beyond his own rough breathing, Hawke could hear Fenris give a little, strangled cry of his own. It was low, so low that Hawke almost dismissed it as a throat clear, until he did it again. Louder this time. The note of it was unsure, tentative, let out almost as if Fenris could not hold it in.

Rolling his head to one shoulder, the uninjured one, Hawke dared to take a peek at the man across from him.

Fenris had one hand at the front of his breeches, moving up and down in a lengthy slide above the fabric. He hadn’t allowed himself to grab skin to skin yet. His posture was closed off, as if Fenris was actively trying to keep himself in check. As if he was uncertain of how to go about mirroring Hawke… but was trying anyway. His arm crossed over his chest, and the hand he was not grinding gently into his groin moved up to cover a spot on the opposite side of his neck. Hawke was sure he’d kissed that spot on the balcony, before they were so rudely interrupted.

Maker, how he wanted to kiss it even more now.

His eyes fluttered closed again, but no other fantasy came. Hawke had the odd sensation that this _was_ the fantasy. That he would be revisiting this rich, almost humiliating atmosphere of abandoned lust for ages to come. That Fenris would be doing the same.

He wanted to make it something to remember.

Hawke rolled his hips with more abandon, keeping it slow but widening his circles. He spread his legs another millimeter, then another, until he felt exposed and consumed with selfish desire. He massaged the growing heaviness in his balls, prolonging the inevitable, showing Fenris what he hoped was something new to take pleasure from. His movements stilled for a moment when Hawke heard Fenris fumble and then give a short sigh.

Hawke opened one eye, peering out across the bed right as Fenris leaned forward.

“I am waiting for the ruin of which you speak,” Fenris said softly. “But all I see right now is pleasure that seems to border on painful.”

Hawke scoffed, a weak laugh. Fenris wasn’t wrong, exactly. Edging himself did tend to ache, a deep pulse of tightness that build pressure in his groin the longer he held off from coming. The ruination was mental, hidden from Fenris’ sight. He was ruined by his imagination, and all of the things he knew he wanted to do with Fenris… and possibly never would.

Hawke imagined Fenris taking charge and holding the back of Hawke’s neck as he placed his thighs on either side of Hawke’s face. He’d help Hawke balance as, with the other hand, he pushed his cock slowly onto Hawke’s waiting tongue. Hawke imagined Fenris as the hero, spreading Hawke wide, stretching him with careful expertise before fucking him hard into the headboard.

The Fenris that ruined Hawke was take-charge and powerful. The Fenris before him, however, was inexperienced and eager. With a heartpounding clarity, Hawke realized that they were one and the same, and it added another, deeper layer to his desire. It added a carefulness to his actions, one Hawke was infamous for lacking.

He loved him. Hawke knew even as he knew better than to say it, he loved this man and that in and of itself was going to be his ruin, whether Fenris ever became aware of it or not.

As Hawke laid back trying to assess where his fantasy ended and his feelings began, Fenris spoke up and sent a shiver through Hawke’s entire core.

“I want to watch you finish yourself. But slowly,” he whispered, voice thick with longing, no uncertainty in his demand. “Don’t speed up when you reach for your orgasm. I want to take in every detail.”

There was a kindness there, somehow, one Hawke felt run through him with more healing energy than the embrium he could still taste on his tongue, sweeter than chocolate and _gaildahlas_ combined.

“Just watch?” Hawke asked, his voice smaller and less confident than he would’ve liked. The elf before him nodded.

“For now,” Fenris murmured. “I might change my mind as I do. Would that be acceptable?”

“What?” Hawke asked, “To change your mind, or to touch me?”

“Both, I suppose. Would it be better to set stricter parameters here? Should I just sit back and keep my hands to myself instead?”

“No! I mean, yes, if that's what you want, but it’s acceptable to touch me if you feel the urge to. More than acceptable.” Hawke opened his eyes, both hands stilling. “How do you want me?”

“Just like this,” Fenris said, and in his voice there was a note Hawke hadn’t heard before. It was soft, and dark. It was new. If Hawke didn’t know any better, he would have said it was tenderness.

“Good,” Hawke smirked. “Because I’m already very comfortable.”

“So happy it’s not an inconvenience,” Fenris teased back, and just when Hawke was about to continue Fenris reached out and laid a palm on Hawke’s thigh.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke cursed, clutching himself tight at the base of his cock to keep from coming. He held his breath, counted backwards from ten, and then let it out in a long exhale. Fenris hadn’t flinched away, but he hadn’t moved either. Hawke turned to him with desperation in his eyes and an unabashed begging in his voice. “If you do touch me,” Hawke whispered, “that means you’re in control. Not me.”

“I don’t understand. Is that a good thing, or not?”

“It’s not a rebuke,” Hawke said, and he forced himself to relax under the elf’s touch. “It’s an invitation. But… I won’t touch you back.”

Fenris’ eyes widened, his face an expression of what looked like frustrated surprise, but Hawke plowed forward.

“Think of me as a living fantasy with no repercussions,” Hawke said, intending for the statement to be light and flirty. He realized belatedly, just as he said it, how maddeningly depraved the wording was. And just how much he liked that. His cock twitching in his hand, Hawke continued, “You can do what you like to me, test it out. See if you like it, see what makes me tick, see what ends the fun. But you can also stop at any time and I won’t protest. You have all of the control.”

“You really won’t touch me back?”

“No,” Hawke promised. “Not this time.”

“I see,” Fenris said, and he left his hand on Hawke’s thigh for a moment longer. As the fingers flexed over his muscles, Hawke tried to think of something to say. However, Fenris beat him to it. Under his breath, he murmured a soft, “Thank you.”

“You’re…” Hawke bit his lip, at his limit. “You’re alright with this?”

“That you’re respectful of my wishes?” Fenris said, his voice dry as he raised an eyebrow in sarcastic teasing. “It will take getting used to, I’ll admit.”

Before Hawke could retort, the hand at his thigh trailed upwards. His breath caught in his chest, quick and shallow, eagerness overpowering his thoughts. Fenris traced a light path up to where Hawke held his own cock in his hands. As Hawke gasped, Fenris traced his index and middle finger up along the underside of Hawke’s member. Just as Hawke had touched Fenris' ribs when he was undressing him, a tentative and exploratory gesture.

Hawke fought to hold himself tight at the base of his shaft, to keep it from flexing underneath of the basic stimulation, and he grit his teeth to keep the sensation from tipping him past the point of no return. Fenris had requested slow, a deep orgasm milked from patience and withholding, and Hawke intended to give that to him. The last thing he wanted was to come like an inexperienced teenager at the mere scrape of a fingertip along his length. He was better than that.

But Maker, he hadn’t expected Fenris to actively tease him back. He’d expected the elf to watch, to encourage, maybe to touch himself across the bed. But not to immediately join in.

Fenris seemed to revel in Hawke’s confusion for a moment, but the touch changed quickly. As Hawke screwed his eyes shut and forced his head back into the pillows, Fenris’ hand fully grasped him and pumped downward.

“Oh, fuck,” Hawke moaned, actively arching up into Fenris’ fist.

“Good?”

Hawke whimpered, nodding.

“You seem to be a bit sensitive.” Fenris paused, then released Hawke. He licked his palm, just as he’d seen Hawke do, and brought his skin back into contact with Hawke’s aching cock. Hawke gasped, barely in control of how his hips bucked at the sensation.

“Please. Fenris,” Hawke bit out with difficulty, his breathing coming in short, rasping bursts. “You can’t keep that pace. I’ll- I’ll come.”

“Will you?” Fenris asked. “Does that mean you want me to stop?”

He stroked him slow, so painstakingly slow and even, with his palm traveling down Hawke’s length and then back up with absolute unhurried exploration. His fingers moved around and across his girth, as if memorizing every indent he could find.

“I don't _want_ you to, but if you want to prolong this, then yes," Hawke bit out. "You have to.”

Fenris obeyed, his knuckles wrapped loosely about the sensitive nerves gathered beneath the head of Hawke’s cock. His thumb poised itself at the bead of precome leaking from the tip of the straining member. As if surprised by it, Fenris touched the tip of it gently then pulled back, trailing the viscuous fluid with his finger. Hawke thought to the spiced peach jam Fenris had sucked from his thumb, and wondered if Fenris would lick his precome with just as much thoroughness.

“Are you-” Hawke struggled to think of something else, something other than the perfect way Fenris brought his thumb back down to the tip of his cock and gently swirled about its opening with his slick fingertip. “Do you touch yourself in this bed, Fenris?”

_Idiot!_ Hawke grit his teeth against the imagery he'd conjured up for himself, struggling twice as hard to keep control of himself.

“Not as often as I’d like to,” Fenris whispered, and his other hand came up to rest over Hawke’s heart. As if shocked that it was beating so hard and so fast, he raised his eyes to Hawke’s with a questioning expression.

“Can you feel that?” Hawke brought one hand from his shaft up to cover Fenris’ at his chest. He held it tight to his bare skin, directly over his heart. “That’s what you do to me.”

“Can I… do more?”

“Do anything you want to,” Hawke whispered, struggling to keep his tone casual and not imploring.

Remembering his promise, he dropped his hand away from Fenris’ fingers. He could feel his mana escaping the reigns he kept on it, could feel his fingertips growing cooler with every frantic beat of his heart. Trying to quell his panic, he brought both of his wrists high above his head and away from Fenris, wincing a bit with the tightness from his shoulder. His cock flexed freely in Fenris’ hand, and the weight of it seemed to surprise the elf. He pulled his fingers back a bit, just barely keeping in contact with Hawke’s member as he pushed against its girth.

“I changed my mind,” Fenris said slowly, his face set. Hawke frowned, a pulse of disappointment streaking through him until Fenris’ palm closed about his cock once more and slid down its length. “I want to finish you myself.”

That mere phrase was enough to start the pull of Hawke’s orgasm at his core. With an immediate, choked cry, he tried to hold off. He clenched his hands into fists above him, threw his head back into the pillows, fought to keep his hips from moving of their own volition. He could feel his fingertips begin to frost over, tiny cold snowflakes at the base of his nailbeds as he struggled in vain to contain himself. The more he held onto his orgasm, the colder his hands got, and the more confidently Fenris stroked him.

“Am I doing this right?” Fenris asked, his hand at Hawke’s chest rubbing a slow circle over his ribs onto his sternum, as if memorizing the curve of his muscles when he was in the throes of such an act. Hawke nodded desperately, moaning past clenched teeth. Fenris laughed. “Are you sure? You look like you’re in pain.”

“So ruin me,” Hawke invited, begging as the pleasure built harder in his hips. “I need you to-”

Fenris began to twist as he’d watched Hawke do, a gentle rotation that prolonged every stroke, and Maker he was so fucking _good_ that Hawke could barely keep himself from yelling. His back bowed into the mattress, his hands clasping the pillows behind him in urgent need, and still Fenris kept his strokes painstakingly steady. His other hand on his chest pressed harder, keeping him grounded, keeping his back on the duvet as he writhed.

“Fenris-”

“Easy, Garrett,” the elf whispered, his hand over Hawke’s heart and his voice containing more than two simple words should be able to convey.

Hawke saw stars. He knew he was writhing as he came, his hips bucking up into Fenris’ hand as he clutched the pillows behind him. His entire body felt flexed, taut, pulled tight as he rode out his orgasm. Once, twice, thrice, again and again he was hit with a deep draw of ecstasy that emptied him from the base of his spine. He could feel a tension about his shaft with every wave of pleasure, could feel Fenris’ hands steadily easing more from him, continuing his motions with diligence until Hawke’s hand caught his.

“Sensitive,” he moaned once more, finally overcoming the crest of his pleasure to be able to find his words again. “Maker, too much, too much, too-”

Fenris gave a laugh, though whether out of desperation or surprise, Hawke couldn’t tell. With one final low growl, Hawke flopped back into the covers as Fenris released his hold on him.

“Your hands are freezing, Hawke.”

“S-sorry,” Hawke pulled his finger off of Fenris’ wrist, but even that motion threatened to pull him down into black sleep. He was so very rarely accustomed to _not_ sleeping after he came, it took all of his willpower to open his eyes.

“Stay there,” Fenris ordered, and Hawke complied. The elf stood and left, walking off towards… someplace…

Hawke fell backwards once more into the pillows, exhausted and satiated and glimmering beneath his skin with the fractured shards of his ruination at Fenris’ hand.

He woke up to a cool cloth at his stomach. He flinched at it, the chill of it sending an unwanted shiver through his body. Another stroke, and Hawke realized Fenris was cleaning him up. Opening one eye as he grunted, Hawke tried to swat Fenris away.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” Fenris said simply, drawing the cloth once more over the dark hair covering Hawke’s stomach.

“No, I mean,” Hawke flinched as the cloth dripped a single icy droplet down over his ribs. “Just wait for it to dry. Then I can flake it off easily.”

“You can’t be serious,” Fenris said, his voice low and a touch disgusted.

Hawke grinned sheepishly.

“I never claimed to be.”

“Nevermind. I’m finished anyway,” Fenris set the cloth down on the bedside table.

Hawke expected him to move, but Fenris did not. He simply sat there, facing the fire, facing away from Hawke, and Hawke could almost hear how hard the elf swallowed in the quiet left behind after such an act. He was staring into the embers, wearing an air of stoic confusion about his shoulders like a cloak. Hawke did the only thing he would have wanted, were he in Fenris’ position.

He shifted down the bed until he was right behind the elf, and then draped himself about Fenris’ back. The elf huffed as Hawke settled his weight in a curve about Fenris’ body, his arms loose about Fenris’ waist as he brought his legs to either side of him. Once he got comfortable, he had effectively covered Fenris like a large, Hawke-shaped blanket. Simultaneously, both men sighed as they stared into the fire.

“Am I too heavy?” Hawke asked, murmuring the question into Fenris’ shoulder.

“No,” Fenris shook his head, and then brought one hand up to Hawke’s forearm. Instead of making him shift it, Fenris simply held Hawke to him in that manner. A slight touch, but one of calm possessiveness nonetheless.

They fell quiet, and Hawke was reminded of something Fenris had twice admitted now. Things came easily to Hawke, like talking out his vulnerability, and it seemed to frustrate the warrior to no end. Clearing his throat, he pressed a kiss onto Fenris’ exposed shoulder.

“Was that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Fenris breathed. “I liked being the one to help you along.”

It was as if saying that aloud surprised him, but he admitted it nonetheless. Hawke hummed approval against his shoulder.

“You are incredibly good with your hands.”

“I merely finished what you started,” he said dryly.

“Next time you can start me, then,” Hawke offered, jostling Fenris lightly. The elf’s hand tightened at his arm.

“There is to be a next time?”

Hawke felt a chill drop through his stomach. His breathing quickened.

“I mean…”

Hawke struggled. He wanted to say of course. He wanted to say yes, there was no question, they were good together and it was fun and Hawke wanted Fenris more than he’d ever wanted anyone before him. And yet.

“Not if you don’t want there to be a next time, no.”

Fenris sighed shortly.

“So it is up to me?”

“Until you tell me to take charge, yes,” Hawke agreed.

“Am I that fragile?” Fenris asked, but his voice was so quiet that Hawke wasn’t sure if he was asking Hawke or himself the question.

“You,” Hawke said carefully, “are one of the strongest people I know. Not just your body, either, Fenris. But you.”

“And this is why you coddle me? Because of my strength?” Fenris spat.

“Respecting your wishes is not coddling,” Hawke insisted. He paused. “Your wants and needs are just as important as my own. Do you not believe that?”

Fenris said nothing.

“Do you not realize you are worth more to me than a moment of pleasure?’ Hawke asked.

Again, nothing. Hawke could feel Fenris’ muscles tighten a fraction more.

“Do you remember what I said to you before?” Hawke asked, his lips against Fenris’ shoulder once more.

Fenris shrugged, a minute gesture. He either didn’t remember, or didn’t want to say. Hawke sighed.

“I said that no matter what, you are my friend above all else. You mean…” he paused. “Your friendship means the world to me. Do you believe me, when I say that?”

Fenris was silent, but Hawke could feel his breathing hitch once, then twice. As if he wanted to speak, but was stopping himself as the words met with the back of his teeth.

“Hmm.” Hawke rested against him, sighing again. “It must be hard, to be put first by someone, after so long of feeling ignored."

Fenris made a sucking sound with his teeth, but didn't answer. The hand at Hawke's forearm dug clawlike into his flesh, but he did not push Hawke away.

"Is this why you finished me, but asked for nothing for yourself?”

He felt Fenris tense further beneath him, as if he were gearing up to shove away from the bed, but the elf did not pull back or throw Hawke from his shoulders. He merely stayed, wound up, unsure.

“If you asked me to touch you,” Hawke said plainly. “I would have loved it just as much. If not more.”

He made no move to nuzzle, caress, or further drive that point home. Fenris was too coiled beneath him, and his breathing had changed. The conversation had struck a chord within the elf, and Hawke wasn’t sure how he was going to react to that vulnerability he said he struggled to show.

_Maybe_ , Hawke mused, _he just needs an example. Toe to toe. Step for step. Something he can follow._

“Did you like doing that to me?” he asked.

Fenris nodded, after only a heartbeat of hesitation.

“Even with my fingers… doing the thing they did?”

“What thing?” Fenris asked, his voice cutting. Hawke held his open palms out before Fenris, resting them on his lap.

“When I was about to finish, I couldn’t hold my mana in check as easily. My fingers started to grow cold, like you said. I might’ve gotten frost on your pillow. Sometimes that happens when I work myself up too much, when I get too carried away.”

Hawke stared into the fire, realizing belatedly that this could be a deal-breaker to admit that he had used magic he couldn’t control.

_Still. Vulnerability for vulnerability_.

“I didn’t notice,” Fenris said softly, and before Hawke could reply, he had placed his hands in both of Hawke’s upturned palms. “Was this why you kept your hands from me?”

It was Hawke’s turn to nod. Words didn’t come.

“You were afraid that I would judge you?”

“Or that I would frighten you,” Hawke whispered thickly, sadness behind his every word. "With what I am. What I have the potential to be."

“You cannot frighten me,” Fenris said, turning to Hawke with intensity in his gaze. Hawke searched there for signs of a lie, but there was none, especially not when Fenris added firmly, “Not anymore, not ever.”

Hawke kissed him before Fenris could admit anything else. He kissed him with gratitude, and all of the love he could not confess for fear of hurting either of them. He kissed Fenris with ease, tasting the sadness and fear behind the elf's lips and drawing it into himself. When the elf pulled away with a little sigh, Hawke turned back to the fire. A streak of shame coursed through him when he realized that he was growing hard again, pressing gently into the back of Fenris’ arsecheek. He hadn’t even laced himself back up again. His bare cock was pressed flush against the elf, and Hawke could only pray he didn't notice.

“My injury seems to have healed itself,” Hawke said, feeling stupid, but not knowing what else to comment on.

Fenris gave a little scoff.

"What is that... Hawke. Are you..."

"You're an excellent kisser," Hawke muttered into his shoulder, feeling a trace of warmth color his cheeks bright pink. Even as he voiced the excuse, he wished he'd denied it. He wished he'd hidden it, so that Fenris wouldn't feel pressured to do more than he'd already done.

The elf gave a soft chuckle.

“You truly are insatiable.”

“What? I didn’t-”

Hawke’s protests were lost when Fenris pulled him down to the blankets, kissing him as he pulled Hawke astride him with rough hands. His tongue insistent, his back arching upwards, Fenris took the lead even as he relaxed back onto the pillows beneath him. Hawke broke away, needing to make sure.

“Wait. Is this okay? A second time?”

“For now. However,” Fenris licked his lips, then with more finality said, “I don’t want you to touch me yet."

"Oh." Hawke swallowed with difficulty. "Is kissing touching?"

"No, that's fine," Fenris rolled his eyes, as if embarrassed that he was being asked to clarify. Glancing away, he murmured, "But maybe I can show you how you ruin me, if you promise not to touch me just yet.”

“You think of me too?” Hawke breathed, mesmerized as Fenris pulled his shift up above his waist to draw a palm down his abdomen. “You touch yourself when you're alone?”

“Not as often as some people,” Fenris muttered, but his thumb caught in his breeches all the same and pulled them further downward, revealing the _v_ of muscle leading low across his hips. “But yes. To thoughts of you.”

“Show me,” Hawke breathed, dipping his head to capture the curve of Fenris’ neck with his teeth.

The elf let out a strangled cry, his hips arching in immediate response. His one hand still at his hips, the other moved to the back of Hawke’s head, replicating the way Fenris had held him tight to his collarbone before they’d been attacked.

“I don’t know if I can let you do more than this,” Fenris whispered, his words punctuated by low mewls that had Hawke’s cock hardening at the mere sound of them. “But… I want to. Eventually.”

“I do too.”

“Hawke. Please. Let me stay in control. Tell me you’ll stop if I want to stop, no questions.”

Hawke murmured his agreement in a low moan, lapping at the sensitive skin with his tongue before pulling away to whisper in Fenris’ ear.

“I’ll do everything you say,” he promised. “You are worth that and so much more, Fenris.”

As Hawke returned to his ministrations, his mouth working a hot kiss into the achingly delicate curve of Fenris’ collarbone, he thought he heard the elf gasp out something to the quiet of the room. A word, _sweetheart_ , on the tail end of a moan that rocked his entire body, and then Hawke stopped trying to decipher whether this was right or wrong. Hawke merely fell into the man at his side, the elf who touched the frost on his fingertips, knew the depth of his self-doubt, and trusted him all the same.


End file.
